Cyborg Scouts

In service of quiet wars unseen,
where maps are drawn from what machines can glean,
they deploy the small, the bred from below—
cockroaches 🪳 wired with a cold clinical glow.

No marching boots, no engine’s roar,
just skittering shapes across the floor;
through broken stone and poisoned air,
they go where humans would not dare.

A camera eye in chitin sealed,
a whisper of circuits half concealed,
they slip through cracks like thoughts of fear,
and bring the hidden battle near.

In ruined halls and tunnel veins,
where silence hums with distant strains,
they trace the heat, the breath, the sound—
the unseen life still lingering around.

They carry data, fragments, traces,
from many dark and narrow spaces;
no flag they bear, no voice they raise,
just coded paths in labyrinthine grace.

And somewhere far from blood and dust,
behind the screens of measured trust,
decisions form in lines of light
from what was seen in endless night.

So small they pass through fractured space,
unseen in every hidden place;
the living tools of distant minds
in wars concealed by wires and blinds.

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