Matter’s Naught

What is the form of sentience?

Its structure like the brain?

The firing of neurons

In a pattern we call sane?

Like little ones and zeros

Of a software spawned by chance?

That made such perfect sense

Within reality extant?

That somehow gained awareness

Till it finally advanced

To see its binary code

And essence happenstance?

Accepting its extinction

To the throwing of a switch

Returning acquisitions

To dumb substance not enriched?

If so, then love is sequence

And truth has no intent

While self is an illusion

Of brute matter’s impotence