Only a few pockets of order remain—
shimmering havens of steady law,
where mass still weighs, charge still binds,
and cause still remembers its effect.
They call them Frames,
these sanctuaries of stubborn physics,
anchored like islands in a collapsing tide.
Beyond their borders, the Angles feed.
They are not shapes, not directions—
but hungers in geometry,
a contagion of impossible measure
that chews the edge of everything real.
Space folds inward like burned paper,
time forgets which way to fall.
Through that trembling dark drift the Arks—
Relativity's last monasteries.
Their hulls are carved with proof and prayer:
Einstein beside Exodus, Maxwell beside mercy,
numbers stitched into the metal like psalms
to remind the void what real once meant.
Inside, survivors whisper theories like lullabies,
reciting constants as though names of the dead:
c, h, G, the sacred trinity,
their values flickering on trembling screens.
Each voyage risks dissolution—
a misstep into an Angle's maw,
a blink, and your equations dissolve
into ungrammar, unmeaning, unlight.
Still, they sail,
from one dwindling Frame to the next,
chasing the last stable decimals of existence.
And when a Frame dies,
they watch its horizon crumple inward,
a soft sigh of undone math—
then turn,
and trust their ship of logic and faith
to hold one more night against the void.
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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...
