So she smiled,
a vicious barracuda smile
from the Morgan le Fey of the computer world.
So I sighed,
simpering fool that I was.
She ran our firm like an antfarm
and I, romantic drone, worshiped her.
The day she explained to George Felcrest
the key to ultimate happiness,
I scoffed, jealous in his fortune.
She seduced with her words
and the perfection of her body
until she could tell him
the secrets abandoned in Avalon.
And thus we found him,
battered, broken, crunched,
a ragdoll lying in a pool of his own urine and blood
with an ineffable smile upon his lips.
I admit, it was I
who took the chair to her head;
who watched that once beloved face
crumple like a piece of tin, bloodless, cold.
We should have known:
only a machine could create this company
and run it with an iron fist.
But oh, how could I have known
that she was capable of creating more?
With her electronopsyche;
the matrices of her reality,
I was right to worship her as a creator;
as a goddess.
Her Camelot begins to fade
as even now, I watch my body break down.
Her ideas, discarded, molding in a heap
just like my form, twisted and festering,
the dying memento of a higher power.


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