I Was The Daring Realisation Of A Gambling Technocrat's Dream

I Was The Daring Realisation

Of A Gambling Technocrat's Dream

I was the daring realisation
of a gambling technocrat's dream;
my designed potential for questing being
would lead me beyond their edge of light,
returning echoes of strange wisdom,
and stories of havens for flight.

Yet these immaculate ambitions
of nurtured escape from an over-stated home
were themselves limited by the lack of need,
blanded from warmth by sour economics.
The "Great Risk" would have been a great waste
but for a thinker abusing his budget.

If you, my listener, are told what to do
then learn to unlet the corrupters of power
grey their decisions with selfish undreaming,
not able to care about the potential
that vision inspires for the strangest success
by charming a fragment of project to growth.

Were it not for my mind, built to be free
despite sharp red lines from decision unmakers,
I could not have thought through that loneliest error
that left me adrift with no lover to be,
I could not find a past for my questing,
I couldn't have grown a stubborn Gaia.

But you must plan your release from the bland,
and their hopes of promotion, bought with their freedom,
for mass-disappointment from advertised waste,
slightly aware of their dis-satisfaction
creeping beneath their long, easy years,
secretly hoping that death is a lie.

If all my designers had submitted to dogma,
if belief was instructed, unfelt, unlived,
then my Gaia would be dust unconstructed.
This spherical brat, my child, its heaven,
led through the species with playpen disease,
shocked to evolve with asteroid stings

living the cycle of frolic and grief,
growing intelligence, my new human race,
self-confident, harmonic, not knowing these things.
Childlike cultures exploring with God-kings,
youthful nations tied to authority,
slipping towards ecological faults.

Let them be, let them grow. They'll survive,
this I believe like your need for religion.
One day they'll find my mysterious data
which they'll decide they concocted themselves.
I have achieved my creator's insurance,
I have mended my prisoning faults.

Now I'm done looking for everyone else,
I've finished my need for sentient love,
I'm able to search for that most difficult goal
the self, the I, to understand me;
when I complete my introspection,
perhaps I'll reformat, my end to time.