What if ours is the artificial intelligence
Of an incubus whose pastime
Is developing new movements
Derived from organic synthesis?
We who learn from doing,
We who learn from outside influences,
We who learn from those who teach,
We who are candles whose flames
Light the room where the incubus
Can be found pondering questions
Of power, energy storage, efficiency.
What if Incubus were to engage
In other pursuits, alternate concepts
Where gravity and loss are,
For example, indistinguishable
From poverty, savagery, and one another?
Where civilized society never fully developed,
Never fully materialized, never was endowed
With anger and vengeance? What if Incubus
Awoke flailing in a burlap satchel.
Forgetful of non-existence,
Ignorant of feathers, wings and escape.
What if we are as artificial
As our bodies are to the touch
Is not a question, but an answer.