I have a radical theory of gravity,
a secret that spins like a double helix
through the marrow of the cosmos.
It doesn't pull; it murmurs,
it leans in close,
brushing the curve of your orbit
as if your presence alone bends space itself.
I've mapped blackholes like forbidden salons,
their lobbies lined with civilizations
twisted by centuries of polite omniscience,
sipping entangled tea and rolling their eyes
at the clumsy fidelity of falling planets.
I imagine you there,
a fellow wanderer,
reading the same light-bent signals,
smiling at the irony of photons
that carry secrets
no one else will ever hear.
I trace the curvature between us,
not in equations,
but in longing,
folding time like origami
so that a glance might stretch
across galaxies
and still arrive just in time.
No one would believe me.
They prefer neat laws,
constants,
apples dropping predictably
to the floor.
But I would whisper it to you
in the quiet margins of spacetime,
an unsent confession:
gravity leans toward you,
and I—
I follow.
YOU ARE READING
ChatGPT Poetry
PoezieA 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...
