Evil Twin clones
In a world without connotation
In a world of artificial intelligence
No ripples come from the stone thrown in water
No ripples come from the word written on the page
Just an eternally blank slate
A Tabula Rasa of clones
Colourless, without scent,
Designed not created
Decidely, not, heaven-sent
Man's ill-fated sojourn is done
To be knocked off his throne
Check-mated in the lack of DNA
Relegated to a managerial role
In the future
His sole purpose
To ensure the efficient maintenance
Of the sterile environments
Conducive to the rearing of clones
This, alone:
This closed circle of intent
A measure of man’s tragic descent.