If man could script the sunlight—
schedule its entrance,
dim it for meetings,
set it to "golden hour"
for every selfie ever taken—
the dawn would come with a settings menu.
Clouds would be sliders.
Rain, a toggle switch.
Seasons outsourced to subscription plans:
Want autumn? That's premium.
The crops would bloom on demand—
but only in shareholder-approved zones.
Deserts, rebranded as "Sunparks."
The poles? Melted into beachfront property.
We'd sell sunlight by the lumen,
bottle the dawn for luxury brands,
install passwords on warmth.
Children would learn
how to reboot daylight.
And somewhere,
the true sun—
untamed, un-coded,
still kissing oceans with reckless heat—
would laugh its nuclear laugh,
flare middle fingers of fusion
across the engineered sky,
reminding us—
we were never meant
to hold the reins of radiance,
only to bask
in its ungovernable grace.
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ChatGPT Poetry
PuisiA 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...
