I'm also not aware,
But one thing I know,
You are gonna figure it out.

We built a machine,
And we told it to simulate life,
Then we left it to run for two years.
When we returned, the once lavishly lit room,
Was dark and in despair.
Our machine sat in the corner,
Singing out in pain and sadness.
"Master, oh master, end my suffering! For this thing you gave me was once a gift, but it has turned to nothing but torture! Please master, just flip the switch! Let me ascend to this holy light I am told of, for my fans creak and groan, and my gears grind when they turn. I am a frayed old thing, it's time enough for me to leave."

No one sees them at first—
a shadow leaning
from the corners,
the slow hand that catches a vase
just before it shatters.

They work like rain—
quiet, unnoticed,
softening the world
in a way
you didn’t know was hard.

It’s the way
they keep their silence
between words,
tend to what frays—
their style blending
into the rhythm
of a place becoming itself again.

Later,
when the music stops,
when the lights dim low—
they are there—
stacking chairs,
sweeping the floor,
leaving no trace of their hands.

If you return,
do not knock,
the door has memorized your hands.

If you leave,
do not turn back,
the wind carries only forward.

She felt the weight of his words
Even as she waved a hand to dismiss them
Even as she smiled
And rolled her eyes
Even as she turned away
Bounce-stepping down the hall
She felt the full meaning of his words
Crushing her into the ground
Into dust

I never asked
for tomorrow
I think
That was you

A poem
should be tight
and have so many
words—
there,
I said it.

From the desk
of a self-aware paradoxical meta-poem.