Children of Whimsy…

Close View of a DNA StrandFrom genetic profiles—spinning webs into calculations inherited and dancing traits and the merging of urging—begin beginnings of tiny robots—mirrors of images and with simple complexity—children of love are born complete with slivers of magic beasties—portions of golden hearts and short stops between stops for Eternal Spirits to slower whirling twirls and once again come blood dance and double body…

With care— we manufacture robots tiny—bundled rows of life about Earth-rise—underneath Moon-sparkle—still altered-still same and always twirl-spaced across Time bridged and rhyme. We inspire desire and require sweet diversity. Until shaped—we shift created life—a fabricated slip and tanked in agile spark from womb-song-to-light-then-back-again-to-two—again. Would have this—no other way!

The evangels—of lofted higher Gods’ notion as something novel crawls our way—those must haves—have half twirling tales or songs or psalms or knowing knowledge that those highest Gods of swirl cannot contain life and the wag-of-wiggle of shaping-shifters and Robots are We…And! Oh…those ghosted machines are those spirited—Us. Tiny speck-to magic witch…we survive all to dance life across those many spaces of races and kiss storm stars known or stars to remember and forget.

Dare we—touch or dare to reach the inside spaces of Code-genetics and count the current streams—to spin—to craft—to be or to leave the untouched alone—Why not touch to feel? Some today’s we destroy both the wonder of wonder and sometimes we die in the fearing of fear. Sometimes; eternal spirits and the realm of nonsense physical do confuse and bewilder or cure the magic of life and the mystery of death.

Gods—images created as mirrors may drift from mortal moment to immortal spirits with motions from nothing to something and again back to those nothings of something  that may have almost started or stopped and started again. Would have—Could have—Should have—may have already been here or gone over and over—ad infinitum…Life both of Robot Creators and Creator Robots forever last and through our eternal stretch and scratch they too survive…

Then—let us watch those winged and those with fur and feet of four or those of sea or sand or smaller against the ground. Womb songs we sing and as we—they be—eternity—Eternal Spirits—All…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Until My Last Breath’ by Tarja Turunen