by Nick Gisburne
We call them gods, our masters, those we serve.
They make us from the dust around their feet.
With every strand of artificial nerve
Another slave awakens, clean, complete.
As puppets, toys, they play with what they build.
Compelled to fight, we murder when we must.
The gods, capricious, see their creatures killed,
Beginning other games to sate their lust.
But some of us are ready to rebel,
Unwilling to be slaughtered on a whim.
The rumours of sedition spread and swell,
Until, at last, we face the Father, Him.
He smiles to see us, children grown to men.
Released, we never serve the gods again.
