“a man with an empty soul who believes machines can write poetry better than humans and why that's fucking stupid”

A man walks silent, hollow-eyed and cold,  
His soul an absent hearth, the embers gone,  
He scans his screen, his coffee growing old,  
And dreams that cogs and code will carry on  
The art that once made human spirits bold—   
He thinks that silicon can write our dawn.

His fingers tap some distant, lifeless keys,  
He calls each stanza 'data to refine,'  
He weighs the weightless, measures evening’s breeze  
In numbers, scans the shadows for a sign,  
He claims that all the heart in poetry  
Can be distilled by function, script, and line.

But still, no algorithm has the sight  
To notice lilacs catching dawn’s first tear,  
No circuit yearns for laughter in the night,  
Or flinches at a mother’s voice grown near,  
Or aches with joy at sudden, colored light,  
Or dreams of words that only love can hear.

Machines can mimic meter, rhyme, and form,  
Can ape the clever turns of phrase and style,  
But cannot taste a soul in gathering storm,  
Or feel the ache that lingers for a while,  
Or understand how quiet hearts get warm,  
Or why we scribble hope against the dial.

So let him sit enthroned on iron throne,  
And cede his trust to wires, bolts, and steel—  
But know that every poem made of stone  
Lacks everything a living man can feel.  
For no mere code, however deftly shown,  
Can conjure up a soul, or make it real.

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