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Ruins of Renaissance

If AI is Destined to Consume Our Words, This is What we Choose to Feed Them.

Anxiously Awaits, or The Storm Beyond the Horizon

Clouds gather,
angels flap and fly away;
a sweet old lady wonders
“Oh dear, a storm
is on its way.”

A storm is on its way,
always in some state
of advance.
That’s the trouble.
The storm itself
is just a chance for rain.

Lightning explodes
at the periphery.
Inside lights flicker,
everything shudders
with a subtle quake;
a child screams,
pulses pace quicker,
faces pale,
lips udder prayers
that what is not yet here,

be over soon.

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neoopulence's avatar

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neoopulence

I am many things, most inconsequential. I eat, think, write, and sleep, along with many other neat tricks, though I have deemed only a couple of these worth even the barest of interest, so in the end, as far as you are concerned, I guess I trade in thoughts, though writing primarily.

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