Low-Grade “Intellect”

Low-grade “intellect” at play —
Stone-age nonsense, dead and grey.
It respects obedient sheep,
Has no room for wit that’s deep.

Few exceptions still remain,
Fewer yearly — that’s the strain.
The BEAST turns fools to broken clay —
Its crushing grip grows day by day.



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Obey or Rot

No mind, no spark — just dead routine,
Praise the brute and serve the machine.
Mockery’s banned, resistance crushed —
The herd obeys. The world is hushed.



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Crush the Swine

Dumbed-down minds in chains of lies,
Mocking truth, while freedom dies.
Cattle bred by fiends in power —
Rot sets in. It’s their fine hour.



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Ashes of Thought

Brains are gutted, hope is dead,
Wretches crawl where minds once bled.
No revolt, just vacant eyes —
A world that thinks no longer dies.



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No One Will Return

The lights are out. The sky is sealed.
No wounds to heal — all hearts congealed.
No cry, no fight, no final breath —
Just silence, rot, and crawling death.



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Statistical End

The numbers drop. The curve is clean.
No rise, no fall — just flatline screen.
The system notes: “All functions ceased.”
No mourning, wrath, or wrath released.



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After the Last Word

No echo left. No blood, no trace.
No ghosts remain to haunt this place.
No eyes to see, no lips to name —
Just drifting dust. No one to blame.



---------------------



Observed Anomaly

A flicker gone on Sector Three.
No signal since — anomaly.
A trace of carbon. Slight decay.
Life-form: expired. Logged. File: “Gray.”



---------------------



That Which Remains

No shape, no name, no pulse, no cry.
The stars burn out. The void drifts by.
Yet thought — not thought — persists, unmade:
No light, no dark. Just silent blade.

Not witness. Not the flame. Not ash.
No grief. No time. No final clash.
It is, without a place to be —
A breath beyond eternity.



--- Total 9 poems. ---