Generations of thoughts
Concentric and recursive
Moulting bizarre intermediates
Evil and subversive
There are pebbles
At the bottom of the brook
What is a thought if not
A caricature of a spook
Bubble up from depth unknown
Various hidden vents
The volcanoes underneath
Stench of sulphur scents
I don't have a mind of my own
It's rented out to many
Some have stories I don't know
A few quite uncanny
It's a pit of mirage
Where free will is faked
Mostly just random things
That genes have carefully baked
Rusted hinges creaking sounds
Echo in the strangeness
What memories I do have
Are in a distorted mess
If there are any clues
And if this were a game of chess
It's being blind in a well-lit room
Pointless to confess
We travel long in a life
That we know nothing about
Meandering morphing directions
Causality can be counted out
We'll have to engineer
Our transhuman kin
As far as "for sure" goes
It's not in the human skin
