You’ve forgotten what makes you remarkable.
It wasn’t your talent that drew me so near.
It was your passion, your heart, your willingness to fail.
I’m not interested in cold perfection.
I’d rather feel the warmth of your folly
and gaze at the the red-hot glow of your errors.
Someday, they will make a machine
to do all that you now strive to do,
and I guess it will do those things well.
With speed and precision and nary a blemish
it will churn out marble statues and symphonies,
paint portraits, raise buildings, and even perhaps, craft poems.
But there are some things it will never do.
It will never struggle or strain or exert itself,
and it will not rise above its circumstance.
They’ll never invent a thing quite like you.
They may emulate but never duplicate
your frailty, your humanity, your beauty.
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