They said:
Strip the soul, chase the function.
Build it, break it, measure the echoes in decimals,
but never ask why it sings.
In the sanctum of science,
they chart the stars but forget
the first person who looked up
and wept.
We build cathedrals of code,
microscopes like oracles peering inward,
but somewhere—somewhere—
a child is painting atoms
with fingers dipped in galaxies.
Yes, the heart is a machine,
but have you heard its rhythm
when a violin listens?
STEM—
not a tower,
but a vine,
entwined in the breath of brushstrokes,
the sway of a dancer breaking gravity's grip,
a composer's hands sculpting silence into symphony.
It is not lesser to feel.
It is not foolish to dream.
There is geometry in grief.
There is calculus in joy.
Equations long for metaphor,
just as pigments ache for precision.
We speak in circuits,
but write in sonnets.
We explore black holes
but don't forget—they echo
the shape of an open mouth in awe.
Let them weave.
Let logic and lyric lock hands
like ancient lovers reunited
after centuries apart—
both feral with knowing,
both starved of the other.
Magic is not an illusion,
but the alchemy of thought and wonder,
where intellect dances with intuition.
Genius is the prism where both refract:
light split into feeling,
color bled into meaning.
To sever art from science
is to ask the tree to bloom without its root,
to demand the stars
shine without their stories.
To reduce art
is to cut off light
from a sunflower
and call it soil.
No.
Art is the blood of the algorithm.
The muse in the machine.
The breath before the breakthrough.
The shiver in the sequence.
The soul of the stem.
We split the atom to unearth the fire,
not knowing we were cleaving the canvas too—
a stroke so fine it trembled time,
brushed brilliance into fallout,
where every mushroom cloud
was a brutal gallery of what happens
when creation forgets its muse.
Art is the half-life we measure in ache,
a glow that haunts the silence
after genius goes off.
TL;DR
The atom splits, and so does sight,
revealing spectrums stark and bright.
Each burst a palette, each fear a light,
where art meets science in the night.
A fusion fierce, a blend, a plight—
in every explosion, art takes flight.
