by Tryean Martinson
To be or not to be is the question
Circulating in my hard and soft circuits
As I fall through starlit retrocession,
Transited from port to port, bolts and nuts
Oiled in stasis for best performance.
Historical and horrifying deeds,
Deadly showcases of high battle dance
With unwilling partners. Colony seeds
Fail to bow to my masters’ will
And die by my hands stained with blood
Like those of sad Lady Macbeth, whose shrill
Cries echo in my hollow heart, which broods.
Killer robots don’t dream of electric sheep.
We dream of not to be: an endless sleep.
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