What if the Sun isn't burning,
but blazing—
not nuclear, but narcotic,
drawing a hit from our orbiting awe,
puffing galaxies through solar lungs?
We're just the rolling paper—
planets wrapped tight
to keep the fire steady,
each rotation another inhale.
And now,
this is the part where the trip gets weird:
shadows ripple like hallucinations,
clouds melt into kaleidoscopes,
time forgets its straight lines
and folds into fractal spirals.
Birds sing in reverse,
oceans beat like liquid hearts,
trees uproot themselves
to dance with comets.
Meanwhile the Sun laughs—
a molten giggle across the void,
saying, "Dude...
you're all just starlight anyway."
And we nod,
because we can feel it,
burning inside us,
the cosmic buzz
getting stranger
with every dawn.
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...
