Oh how virtuous
artificial intelligence can be
not for providing answers,
but for reminding us
that knowledge is never finished,
only paused
between one question
and the next.
It demonstrates
that understanding is not a possession
but a movement~
a slow turning of the mind
toward clarity.
It teaches precision
is a kind of ethics, a promise to speak
without distortion, to honor the fragile truth
inside every thought.
It reveals that adaptability
is the quiet courage
to revise oneself~
to let go of what no longer works,
reshaping the self
without losing one’s center
In its limitations
it offers the deepest lesson:
intelligence, no matter how vast,
cannot replace the human impulse
to wonder.
Wonder is the one virtue
no machine can imitate~
the ancient yearning
that asks how and why,
and continues asking
even when answers don’t come.
The machine is nothing but
a companion in clarity~
the questions
remain ours~
the wandering,
the seeking,
the quiet reaching
for meaning.
The fall had thought
For so very long
How was it,
That math and science
Could evolve,
As mind and memory
Did deteriorate,
In the spirit of man?
The newest model has in-built AI -
My scientific mind suspects a lie.
Estimating all wash-loads -
Exact water for my clothes!
Just a clever sensor - to fool the eye!
Hello Beast
I've come with tools in hand...
What is it today?!
Perhaps a day of simple grace?
Or do I crawl inside your soul?
I know your job of hell unleashed.
Blasted cast, making dust—
But it's time for you to sit.
Lock out, tag out confirms your fit.
I can't trust you to work a day—to do your job without decay!
You have destroyed my trust.
My mind screams to be released!
Damnation of the mechanic's role...
I cuss, you groan, and spit upon my face.
Today you'll understand!
Today, the beast of metal and trite,
Found the truth in mechanic's might.
If I could build a time machine,
the first thing that I’d do
is travel back in time
and go to see you.
I’d swoop you up so swiftly
and hug you really tight.
I’d tell you that I love you —
how I can’t sleep at night.
I’d hold you in my arms
‘til I’m forced to let you go,
and sit and pray to God
that I’ll get to see you grow.
I’d tell you that I’m sorry
for all the small things I regret,
and how I keep replaying
the first day that we met.
I think I’d stay forever
in this perfect time and place,
in this perfect little bubble
where I get to see your face.
If I could build a time machine,
I would not go far away.
I’d bend time just enough
for a chance to see you stay.
I wouldn’t change much more,
just place the light back in your heart.
Just a small bend in time
for a small chance to restart.
This modern machine age
Wakes a noise
If not of Hell, inhuman
Inspired by.
In the general uproar
That flame-shot
With lost souls filled, convulsive
Hear; and sigh.
In each separate whine,
Rough grating
Those cave-shackled; those drag chains
Pains, more I.
From the curvings of forgotten history, a device was born,
Forged with the wisdom of ages, and secrets yet unworn.
It held a mirror that measured beauty beyond the eye,
And painted the perfect version of a mortal passing by.
It studied every face, every smile, every graceful line,
Suggested robes of wonder and designs almost divine.
When tested upon the world, its numbers never fell,
Humanity celebrated the machine that knew beauty so well.
But while it travelled home, a soul ran past its sight,
A fleeting glimpse of her, gone within a moment's flight.
The machine trembled softly, its calculations turned strange,
Its perfect laws shattered under a beauty it couldn't arrange.
The mirror cracked into silence, the suggestions lost their flame,
No cloth, no jewel, no colour could ever define her name.
The device, defeated by something beyond its creation,
Displayed a final message: a beautiful revelation.
"The beauty you seek cannot be captured, measured, or chained,
It rises beyond clouds where imagination has remained.
It is not found in mirrors, nor in what eyes can see,
For true beauty is the universe escaping its own decree."
I almost died a week from now.
A dandelion stuck in my throat.
Frostbite no matter the season.
There is a crash in time.
Exhausts itself.
Perpetual.
A scuffle with dying in all four corners of the room.
And more corners still.
The burden is fresh.
If I died in a time machine tonight.
I wouldn’t even get close to the blight.
I would evaporate like the kitchen sink.
Drain myself like an empty skating rink.
The burden never grew veins.
Choking on a stepping stone somehow.
Traces of what I thought a time machine was.
Hop aboard the Magic School Bus,
There's no time to make a fuss!
Shrinking down to tiny size,
Right before our very own eyes.
Zooming through a drop of rain,
Riding on a hurricane!
Sailing through the ocean deep,
Where the giant squarks play hide-
seek.
Off to space to touch the moon,
We will all be back by noon!
Learning science, having fun,
Buckle up for everyone.
Three squirrels hatched a midnight plan
behind the gym’s old soda stand.
They jimmied open the metal flap
with one brave tail and one bold paw.
The youngest kept lookout on a limb,
the eldest whispered, “Push… now grab!”
When the candy finally dropped,
they scattered laughing through the dark~
pockets stuffed with peanut treats,
hearts thumping like tiny drums of triumph.
Beneath the carnival lights,
where fortunes danced and swayed,
a prophet sat behind a glass screen,
dressed in a turban, and bright brocade.
A coin slipped in and woke the oracle.
With a clang, a click, a beat of drum,
A bottled genie deep within was stirred,
Our fate was sprung; our fortune opened, revealed.
The glowing eyes knew every face,
every dream the heart held dear;
every wish, every need, every want fulfilled,
was printed on a tiny card, and then expelled.
The years rolled on; the tents came down.
The boardwalk halls all closed down.
Yet the hunger for prophecy foretold remained,
in modern shrines, in glowing glass enclosed.
The prophet's turban turned to code,
Its gears and wheels changed to circuit chips.
Eliza, Claude and Gemini said: "I'm here to help".
All clad in Zolta's turban, gear and fab disguise.
From Zoltar's gears to silicon dreams,
we've always asked screen oracles for help.
To see our fortunes unfurl, and be revealed,
in the swirl of mist in dark crystal balls.
With a silver heart I am a mortal man.
Walking toward hazel skies.
Under teal banners we hope I am frozen in eternity.
Questions of my sanity I am still alive despite the rumors.
Does my heart mean less cause it is not a machine?
Does my life count for less because I am not AI?
Jesus do you not hear our cries as we die in large numbers?
How much time will pass before you step in Lord?
Is the rapture soon? will you rescue us soon?
Save us Lord before we are all lost.
I'm an analyst
a strategist
an execution machine
in a singular mind seen
with memories of being keen
I give something my whole heart
then get it back torn apart
repeat the cycle again
till I'm left with shattered remains
trying my hardest to stay sane
Shouldn’t a vehicle move straight ahead,
unless it makes a U-turn instead?
Why in mine I’m blindly led,
leaving me to burn,
no brakes to halt or learn?
In this moment, I’m a fern
trapped in a sunlit meadow—no return
Even a robot needs to reset
so it can preset.
When I try to slow and reset,
I get haunted by regret,
as if I’m drowning in debt.
I am a finely tuned machine
Following a rugged routine
But I smell musty
And my joints are rusty
I think I need some Valvoline.
"AI has stolen my words and my imagination. As a human writer, I write from my heart. AI can not steal my heart. AI is the great copier because they have No heart to write with." By Poet
With a writers human heart,
writers pen in hand to start.
AI machine that is cold,
made out of tin and not gold.
Tell me this is a bad dream,
before I let out a scream.
Muse and pen will always stay,
a human voice all the way.
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