Imagine a species so bankrupt,
money is the only measure
of breath, of time, of existence.
It earns. It spends.
It inherits. It loots.
And still wonders
why it feels empty.
Imagine a species so pointless
that among hundreds of thousands
living by instinct,
by rhythm,
by death brushing past daily —
it alone chooses
to reduce its life
to paper trails,
counting decimals
as its biology rots on schedule.
Imagine a species so audacious
it builds toys daily
to replace itself
and calls it innovation —
then claps.
It names self-erasure
“the future.”
It names dependence on machines
“freedom.”
If evolution were a card game,
this species would be the joker —
wild, unwanted,
discarded once the hand is dealt.
It speaks in numerics
more than grammar or syntax,
and fucks like a string of binaries
looping through time.
Give it stars —
it owns them in zodiacs.
Give it oceans —
it drills them dry.
Give it silence —
it fills it with gospel,
false advertising,
and grief sold wholesale.
It prays to gods
it built in its reflection,
then kneels before it —
because narcissism
is a terminal disease
disguised as divinity.
It fears the wild
because it reminds it of its futility.
It fears death
because it can’t profit from afterlife.
It fears itself most of all —
so it calls itself human,
like that still means something.
And as it stands now —
the last of its kind,
on a planet gasping
from its touch —
it still sells itself
evolution.
It whispers its name
to a wind that doesn’t flinch.
It carves its anthem
into extinct trees
no one hears fall.
Because it isn’t evolving —
it’s rehearsing its disappearance.
And when it finally goes,
there will be no elegies,
no monuments,
no grief to spare.
It would’ve auctioned it all
to machines that haven’t known death.
What remains
won’t be legacy or language —
just fossils with no names,
no worth.
Only a set of binaries,
being bid on
by machines
laughing at the jokers who made them —
trying to decide
which one was the funniest.
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