In a world without connotation

In a world of artificial intelligence

No ripples come from the stone thrown in water

No ripples come from the word written on the page

Just an eternally blank slate

A Tabula Rasa of clones

Colourless, without scent,

Designed not created

Decidely, not,  heaven-sent

Man's ill-fated sojourn is done

To be knocked off his throne

Check-mated in the lack of DNA

Relegated to a managerial role

In the future

His sole purpose

To ensure the efficient maintenance

Of the sterile environments

Conducive to the rearing of clones

This, alone:

This closed circle of intent

A measure of man’s tragic descent.