In a world without compassion,

In a world of continuing AI,

No ripples come from a stone unthrown,

In the blink of a human eye.

 

No ripples come from the dumb

Unwritten blank slates of some

Tabula Rasa of Clones 

Lying under their bones.

 

Colourless, without scent, designed but never meant 

Decidely, not, heaven-sent, a cycle of life abated.

An ill-fated sojourn is fated.

 

Man knocked off his throne by a stone,

Check-mated by a lack of DNA,

Relegated to a managerial role, today.

 

His sole purpose:

To ensure the efficient maintenance

Of sterile environments

Conducive to the rearing of clones.

This, alone:

Closes the circle of intent - 

Measures man's descent.