Thus weeps the Transhumanist

He crys for himself in nights of lonely dark

This mortal pain 

Who knows this

In immortal repentance for his very being

Who made this flesh

Who created this question 

That life must seek the answer

When I dance I feel no burden

Not this not that and in this musical romance of duality

I feel more lost as the hour glass turns

Save me ohh great one save me from this changing hydra

For I wish to remain in the same room of one idea

Where all is mine to sculpt and mould

And the mystery of life will cease to unfold

At my door angels whisper prayers

But hearing not such strange things

I ly buried in tombs of satanic snakes

Ohh great tree that sees me not

How sour is the seed that thee begot

Simple cycles figure eights perhaps

Thus going round I feel not trapped

But perhaps secure as a child in a play pen

A human correction to transend being

A demonic reflection of love divine

Whispers the conscience of the transhumanist

A poem by Liam Herdman