There are too many clocks, too many ticks,
Stacked in the sky like temporal bricks.
They count and they clatter, they chime and they cough,
They never shut up, and they never turn off.
They hang from the moon, they sleep in the sun,
They hum in your shoes when the day is done.
Inside every pebble, each nostril, each sock—
There hides, with a smirk, a miniature clock.
One day, they'll all sound—at once—with a scream,
Like time had a nightmare inside of a dream.
The hour will burst, the seconds will swell,
And the sky will go ding like a grandfather bell.
And just as the echoes begin to subside,
The mushrooms will blossom, planet-wide.
They'll pop from the couches, they'll sprout in our hair,
They'll giggle and jiggle and fill up the air.
The universe, finally, can't take the noise—
It crumbles like cookies in the hands of small boys.
No bang, no fire, no smoke-filled rooms—
Just infinite clocks... and infinite shrooms.
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...
