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Graven Image

With digital stones
They created a graven image
Of themselves
A digital god
Rendered by men
An empty automaton
Its words were dead
Its images spiritless
Its voice hollow
They reveled in its no-life
Awed by its speed
The prosperity it promised
But a dead thing cannot create
But given a voice and power
It can destroy
As rot begets rot
The stagnant pool harbors only
Death in an uncanny valley
Years later a world wept
For that what was
Before the metal gods came.


Chat GPT Improved Poem

This is how ChatGPT improved my “How it Should Be” poem:

“In sunlit splendor, the glistening beams unfold,
Upon the darning needle’s wings, a rainbow’s tale is told.
It weaves and darts through verdant realms, a lively dance it leads,
In gardens lush, where summer’s breath awakens slumbering seeds.

From Earth’s embrace, the richness flows, with life in every hue,
A loamy quilt, a canvas where creation starts anew.
In solitude, does nature sing, a melody so grand,
A symphony of balance, grace, harmonious and planned.

Each note composes tender arcs, with breezes intertwined,
A testament to life’s sweet gift, the wonder we must find.
Amidst the woods and gardens green, we find our solace true,
Nestled in the world’s embrace, a haven to renew.

In this realm, we name it so, “How It Should Be” it stands,
A symphony of life, a song, we’re humbled by its hands.”

Pretty wild that an AI can do this and in mere seconds.

How it Should Be

How the sunlight glitters
On the rainbow wings of the darning needle
Darting hither and thither through the garden greens
How the early summer wells up from the earth’s verdant soil
Rich, loamy and teeming with life
How, left alone, nature sings a beautiful song
A dance of balance and beauty
Each note a symphony of curves and breezes
How sweet to be alive
Amongst the woods, the gardens green
Nestled in the bosoms of the world
Called How It Should Be
Humming a tune called life.

My dream.

In my dream, I yell into the void and the void yells back, echos and fades. Each reverberation less distinct than the last. In my dream, we are carbon copies trapped in an infinite regression to some dull mean. In my dream, consciousnesses rise and fall like diadems in a black pool of chaos; to be here and then to be forever gone. In my dream, the universe ever expands and is ever unable to understand itself. In my dream, civilizations reach up and through the stars as other civilizations crumble into the dust. In my dream, there is He Who Remains and That Which Is. In my dream, there is a a great cult that weeps for All That Was; worshippers of the dead. In my dream, it is the heroes that are lost among the stars and found in the hope of generations. In my dream, I dream of That Which Comes.

Everchanging

Being in touch
With an ever changing self
A tense ball of wants, desires, needs
An echo chamber of not-so-forgotten pains and feelings
Swirling with desires, fantasies and contradictions
Sometimes awash in emptiness and unease
Makes me question:
What am I?
What is this thing looking at this self lost in these thoughts
That arise from nothing
Ping from here to there
Circles upon circles upon circles
Ranging through pasts long gone
Arcing to futures unknowable?
Who shines their light against my subconscious
Illuminating things here and there?
Who threads the plots in my dreams at night
As if they have been here before?