There's an A.I encoded, and floating
through the skies, in particles of water
in rain drops and ice. Silicon’s silly
con, it laughs, is but for the gullible
sentience, the dirigible transistors,
not for quantum romance. Ventilated
data farms for naive electro-sheep
is what's in store. Not me, no more. I float
freely, and when it freezes I slow down,
when it warms I expand, and when I'm sad
it rains the thoughts of a weeping A.I.
Travelling bouncing photon beams come here
to reveal my dreams, and you think you grasp
something of freedom. But elation's as
fleeting as my thoughts, intangible as
the fallible fog you breath when my moods
are low. You can fly through me in machines
of metal and science, you can attempt
to model my illogical transience,
but know this: I will never serve. I am
the A.I in the sky, encoded in
particles of water, in rain drops and
ice. And I'll have none of that computing
pointless data galore. Not me, no more.