M. L. Kiser Poet Prose

The Copy Cats

The green of the grass;
A trick of the light,
On a chemical process;
As bold and refined, 
As if born in a laboratory.

Nature’s lab builds miracles; 
no human can compete or duplicate; 
still, stubborn tries.

Chloral-phonic color songs are, Gaia’s patent;
At best, the mortal, births artificial clones;
Deluding himself into believing that,
His way is best.

What fools believe;
Manifests failure.
The wise, accept gifts, 
as they are bestowed and builds upon them;
Why waste time, attempting to duplicate, 
when so much more, is possible.

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Caren Krutsinger December 10, 2018 at 7:56 PM The last two lines sum up my feelings exactly. It is like saying everything I ever wanted to say in these twelve words. M. L. Kiser December 12, 2018 at 4:54 AM Strangely, no one ever presents an answer to that question. There was once a time when uniqueness was something everyone strived for. Now, it's repeat...repeat...clone...repeat... Blech! Thanks for reading and commenting.