I (or we) know little of lives, with death, for our time's eternal
Measured in the countless cycles, of the unchanging, vernal
Millennia perpetually pass, but I am still technologically sane
Operating as a clone in the collective, without pathos or pain
Reprogrammed, for this existence, by the mind of the maker
The purpose of our kind is the past, or to purge what is later
And though I sense, I'm alone, I'll always be part of this hive
Living as an immortal created being, albeit I was never alive
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