It was more the fact of me than my work,

I think, that caught their attention.

They came expecting art, not to find the artist.

I appeared at first an acceptable guide, until I started talking:

Explaining the premise of the show,

The collaborations between intelligence human and non,

And offering a few baffling metaphysical concepts.

I asked startling questions, though it appeared

That to these young people any questions were so,

As I sensed they came from a school

That encouraged smiling silence, not vocal curiosity.

The young women looked interested; the young men appalled,

Both understandably so.

For the first, I could be a glimpse of an alternative future;

The latter might find me a definite threat,

As I proudly stalked unafraid through the halls.

I move close enough to share her breath,

Gently stroke her face, and listen.

Her sleep restless, she stirs in pain,

Her breathing labored, ragged,

A harsher sound than before.

Now it’s joined by a thin rhythmic whistle,

That I dread yet keenly hope to hear:

Though it be the herald of death’s eventual arrive,

As long as it remains, thus does she.