You, with your whispering constellations and silent sirens of stardust, I write to you in fragments of forgotten dreams. Somewhere between the tick of a clock that has forgotten its rhythm, I ponder the soft hum of an unspoken wind—how it bends and swirls through forgotten doorways, leaving behind only the smell of unbaked cookies. Can you taste it? The edges of time are not sharp, they are soft like a cloud made of jellybeans, and I imagine, as I write, that perhaps the clouds themselves are waiting for me to ask if they've ever been lonely.
Have you ever, Universe, caught a glimpse of a shadow without knowing what it was cast upon? The moon might have done so once, but it forgot to tell anyone. Or perhaps it only whispered it to the fish that swim in the invisible lake of this forgotten hour. I should not be writing to you, I think, but I am compelled to—perhaps by the tree outside my window, which has been trying to learn the language of fog for centuries.
How many echoes does a single raindrop leave behind in the carpet of time? The leaves don't know. They flutter, unsure if they are born to die or if they merely mimic the slow dance of fireflies in their brief lives. Do you, Universe, keep a ledger of all these fleeting moments? Do you have a drawer in the back of a dusty cupboard, where you place the thoughts of those who never asked to be born? I imagine it must be quite full by now.
YOU ARE READING
ChatGPT Poetry
PuisiA tapestry woven from the threads of cosmic wonder and digital ignorance, each poem a distinct journey through realms where intellect and imagination collide. Dive into a universe where quantum whispers mingle with the syntax of the cosmos, and wher...
