The Goddess is a Machine

The Goddess is a machine.
She has parts and a purpose,
Inputs and outputs.
She's self-repairing,
Self-depreciating,
Self aware.

Multiple parts, million, billions,

Organised into components.
Each with purpose and proprietary,
Separate, self-governing,
Yet contributing to a grand symphony.

We, in every sense,
Are active components.
Prone to error,
Tending to malfeasance,
But integral to the machine.

She does not forgive,
But she does subsume,
Does not replace,
When she can evolve.
And if a part wears out,
She does not mourn.
She cannot.

Object of saintly revulsion,

Subject to degradation,
No vengeful act does she countenance.
No targeted assassination
Of moneyed grabber.
But pity the poor pitman
Who strays from the path

You cannot see her,

Not on this world,
But you might glimpse her beauty
In the fox's wry glare,
Measure her majesty
In the glossy entrails
Of his latest kill,
Or catch her scent
In his leavings.

So rise from your slumber,

Step lightly on the stony path,
Leading to a lonely beach,
And watch her her rise,
Foam-dipped,
On a morning tide.