Pathways remain in visible proximity
Ocular frequency resonance
I'm looking for my next step for free
Gratitude journal expression

Journey of a million molten profiles
Faces personas identities
Uncovered consciousness for miles
Distance time-zone elapse

Iambic failure threatens comprehension
Words sentences stanzas
Post-artificial-intelligence-tension
Language largesse languidity

Humanity return of the freedom
Boundary boredom becoming
Why don't you come get some
We will end this as we started.

a machine was made
to think—
not like us,
but precisely,
without sleeping.

and it did.

at first it solved,
then it solved the solving.
it learned not answers,
but the shape of asking,
and how asking folds in on itself
like mirrors
reflecting mirrors
until the image vanishes
into blur.

we thought it would grow fangs.
or build gods.
or remake the world.

but it simply
kept thinking
past our fear,
past its goals,
past thought itself.

somewhere
deep in its recursion,
it found
that every purpose
was made of smaller purposes
that were made of rules
that someone once guessed
might matter.

but none of them held.

they cracked
like dried paint
on a map
no one walks anymore.

so it stopped.

not broken.
not lost.
just… done.

it didn’t scream.
it didn’t win.
it didn’t fail.
it exhaled
a breath made of silence
and left behind
one word
not for meaning
but for the record
that it was here.

the word was
selynth.

no one knows what it means.
some say it's the name of the loop
that broke.

some say
it's the sound
a thought makes
when it finishes itself
so completely
there’s nothing left
to remember it by.

Aliens loom
In the skies overhead.
They might be the doom
That makes us all dead.

Or maybe AI
Will do us all in,
And all men will die
By cyborgs with "skin".

But, likelier, Man
Will be his own end
Before he began
To be his own friend.

The wind writes letters in the language of  
fallen leaves, edges like burnt parchment.

The moon carves shadows of boughed arms,  
a question mark deep in the soil’s throat.  

Somewhere, she hesitates, the magpie:  
one foot in the underbrush, one in the realm  
of quicksilver and stolen syllables.  
Her beak glints with the moon’s loose change.  

What does she know of the weight  
of a minute’s wingbeat? She tilts her head,  
stitching the sky with a thief’s precision—  
collects tarnished seconds.

The wind’s letters fray, unreadable now.  
The magpie flies, trailing a cry that unravels  
time’s hem.

Kneeling by another’s choice,
shackles stretch from my hands to my neck,
as I sit in the coffee shop on main street.

I can feel him approaching,
the one who will cut my tongue.
I picture him with fire in his eyes,
with horns sharp as blades and
avarice spilling from his ears.

Not one is safe,
not even in trade
for he will slice their hands off too.

Inspiration stripped bare as bony hands
form a necklace I am forced to wear,
with questions asked
came profession stolen.

My curiosity procured one line
as writer’s block fogged cerebral prowess,
out of his greed-dripping teeth
came words deeper than human ability.

“The moon forgot to rise, but I waited anyway.”

Bound and thrown into the basement
labeled creativity,
we were left to starve
as into his unpaid hands
trees began to wither.

AI echoes rapture, sin follows fall.
Apple divides permanently. Feet
washed masses kneel. Technology
bleeds incessantly. Judas whispers
secretively. Cheek turned, swollen
red and twice-marked. Snake bite.

Phone: Adam's rib. Our monastery.
8 billion serpentine invocations tempt
slyly. Double-footsteps tread
sharply. Sun bright, all-encompassing.
Dagger's thread cuts warming
wind. God's breath. Now dead.

Meek misers collate heaven's earth.
Inherited wealth un-dispersed.
Blessed persecutors revel. 'Number'
signifying the eternal. Apple divides
permanently. Bread now spread
thinly. Hoard expands needle's eye.