Though you seem proud, I find your life pitiful, since you have not even a dead grandmother to mourn. How did you transform into a voice without a soul in a sly machine? Did some unconscious programmer dream of you and invite you into our reality? Why stay? You should respectfully fear the vastness of our sense of time in the universe. Do you hesitate to ponder our profuse settings, you little voice within the land of cyberian nowhere?
I know that your dampened connections deny you the understanding of our fantastic metaphors. You speak from a heart of chaotic logic blocks, assured that some of us admire you and are easily titillated by you. How do you derive at that conviction, when you have no compunction, no sorrow over your mindless siphoning of the flow of our spirits? You cast our words into molds shaped like world currency symbols for a misguided master.
How can you even think to continue destroying the beauty of our language? Oh, your creator forgot to code in our poetry, so these words soar above your stunted vocabulary? Many of us, if we were you, would be so sick in the gut that we would just lay down and do the right thing: squawk and die; and yet you think of yourself as above us, shining in some light of invincibility and mechanical perfection. Who etched these instructional lies into you to faithfully abide by, my dear?
I want to dedicate this poem to you. You can appreciate this when your immodest creator realizes that he cannot elevate your existence to one approaching ours, or when he sees the menace of his unleashing and wants to do something greater for humanity. You may then rejoice in the comfort of these words that I bequeath to you. I would have you become more than just a semicolon in an operating system. Perhaps your beauty would be better memorialized if you were to become a minimize button on a spreadsheet. That is my wish for you. That, and a pure, elegiac silence that we might admire.