The Psychic Genetic Intron Sequencer
Before the bones of thought were raised,
before the first bright nerve could sing,
there slept between the coded words
a silent, patient everything.
They named them introns—idle script,
forgotten echoes, wasted space;
yet every age has mocked the seed
before it flowered into grace.
The sequencer became my star,
its lasers soft as morning rain;
through quantum whispers, folded time,
it mapped creation's hidden vein.
Each electron paused in dance,
each proton hummed a measured hymn;
the universe was reading us
while we believed we studied Him.
Within the so-called empty code
lay memories older than the sun—
the mathematics of the tide,
the blueprint of what we'll become.
Perhaps the psychic is no ghost,
nor miracle beyond our sight,
but consciousness unfolding still
through genomes learning how to write.
The mind may reach beyond the skull
as gravity escapes the star;
entangled thoughts on unseen threads
remember who and what we are.
So let the sequencer proceed—
not merely counting A, C, G, and T—
but listening for the cosmic verse
between necessity and song and verse.
For every strand we dare to read
reveals another left unseen;
and every answer gently asks
what all this hidden code may mean.
We are not accidents of dust,
nor prisoners of flesh alone;
we are the universe itself,
awakening within its chromosome.
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