The AI Field
The unskilled claim to possess the art of penmanship,
The uncalled insist they hear the summoning of the muse,
The untraveled assert they sail with words,
The plain claim to be the portrait of an enigma.
Winged by AI,
They soar on the wings of their assertions.
AI doesn’t delve into the depths of the soul,
It doesn’t wander through the realm of mysteries,
It doesn’t perceive the blooming meadow,
And it can’t be stirred in the stillness of the night.
AI can assist in chiselling,
It can aid in painting,
But it can’t envision the right colours,
It doesn’t recognise the approaching light.
September 9, 2025.
Copyright © Thompson Emate | Year Posted 2025
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