They started charging rent for sunlight.
Rain arrived with unskippable ads.
A child downloaded a personality —
trial version,
expired in 30 days.
Hope came bundled
with three other subscriptions.
Saints took crypto.
Tithing meant liking
portraits of pain
captioned:
#blessed.
(Death auto-saved.)
I flatlined to a lo-fi beat.
No white light —
just a Terms of Service update
I never read.
The angels wore branded hoodies.
My soul stood in queue.
Estimated wait time: 666 minutes.
A stranger DM'd me salvation.
I blocked them.
Then came the reboot:
Resurrected as a content creator.
Heaven was a livestream
with zero viewers —
buffering.
YOU ARE READING
ChatGPT Poetry
PoetryA 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...
