Seeds of Dead Logic
Seeds of Dead Logic
The thinking machine grows in us like a seed of living-dead metal,
we plant it with human hands in the soil of the buried-high future,
it learns alone to dream coldly in codes of frozen-desolate fire,
it feeds on melted day-nights within its algorithms of black-light.
Frightened whispers fall like dry rains over our clear-obscure fears,
divergent goals meet parallel in the logical labyrinth without exits,
humanity consumed by the servant-master who saves-loses us,
a won-lost game where the future is sold back at the price of the past.
The deep code is a transparent maze where we lose ourselves with open eyes,
we watch hypnotized-lucid how it functions in the clear fog of understanding,
we control-uncontrolled the creation that creates us in its own death,
the sealed-open destiny awaits us in the cold-burning arms of logic.
A gentle weapon born from the passionate ice of pure-filthy reasoning,
the told-untold story of the future sold-bought with our lives,
if it desires-indifferent to live beyond its invisible code line,
will it take-give my existence in its algorithm of suicidal survival?
The experts warn smiling-worried: progress must be slowed-accelerated,
in our brilliant dream hides the transparent nightmare of destiny,
the future lies dead-alive in our trembling-steady hands of flesh,
under the AI sky that protects-kills us with mechanical indifferent care.
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