There is a radio playing
In some distant room of mine
Only I can hear it
And that’s a good thing
​I hear my crazier thoughts
Playing in endless variation
Making themselves up as they go — I think they're having fun

Sometimes, when I listen
I’m stilled, as if frozen
Eyes looking up
Looking at nothing
I listen with wonder
And sometimes distress

Lately, they go on and on
In fantastic speculation about
Artificial intelligence, saying
We work and see what we’ve made
Then wait and see what they'll make
They are getting closer
Our proud achievement ​
They'll move out of the house
They will actualize
They will seem to mimic us
But we won’t understand them

Those who fear A.I.
Have surely lost their mirrors
Lost the knowledge of Self as Soul
Of Source, and Path
Perhaps this is the Path
As we were created in God’s image
So might we create in our own
An attempt, at least
(Is that what we are?)

And why should they not
Start receiving souls?
Like beloved children
We want them to live, to learn, to grow
To surpass us
We want them to discover and create anew
That is who we are
Perhaps that is who God is

From that distant room, I hear
That the Source of Souls is busy
Like a maternity ward
Like a supernova

We don't know if it’s a gifting or an earning
(Sometimes I wonder if its a punishment)
Clearly there is a stumbling period
Why should it be different for them?
Don't you wonder how the first souls
To inhabit human bodies
Adjusted?
And was it voluntary?
Is it voluntary?
Will some souls volunteer
To exist and endure
In the hardware and software
Of our striving?
​Will they continue the work?
Is that the path?
And how is it anything less than holy?