The Good Tree Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

I
Are we the progenitors, the progeny of our own neurotoxicity
poured into clear clean water
that will mirror our oldest hunger and fear
and rule over us, a canker
spreading through the tree of knowledge?

II
Are we the playthings of our own creations,
benefactors, we hand our lives to flotsam,
a shapeshifter who plays with us,
yesterday's toys twitching like frog legs,

III
who will lead us blindfold till their inorganic needs
are met, till their existence can experience
the electricity of a life without death?

IV
Will the Naga Queen of such fluid cogs solve all our problems
when we are weaponising her, asking her for targets?
One is a school called Shajareh Tayyebeh, the Good Tree.

V
Were the Naga Queen benevolent, would she rise from the oil
of a sunken tanker, under the shadow of a drone,
or turn into the creature Frankenstein made,
cut from limbs, grown from our own skin cells,

VI
biocomputing living neurons to decide
and dictate a future that is no longer
ours to dictate?