We arrive barefoot,
placed at the table of mass,
bowing to the host we cannot see—
a patient pull,
a whisper of weight
on every step,
every orbit,
every fall.
No invitation was sent,
yet here we sit,
cups trembling
as spacetime bends,
our spines straightened
by invisible etiquette.
We pass the bread of momentum,
pour the wine of inertia,
and laugh nervously,
for we know
the feast is endless—
apples will drop,
planets will circle,
black holes will gulp
with impeccable manners.
We are guests, yes,
but not for long;
our chairs scrape slowly inward,
our voices sink,
until even our stories
curl into silence
at gravity's
gracious
table.
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ChatGPT Poetry
PoesieA 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...
