Imagine a clock that counts backward, but only when you look at it, and every time it strikes twelve, the shadows in the room start whispering truths you already forgot, yet each truth changes the past you think you remember, so by the time the minute hand reaches six again, you're not sure whether the cup of coffee on the table exists because you put it there yesterday or because tomorrow's you imagined it, and if you try to tell someone else, they'll nod as if they've always known, except their nod also rewinds a second of your memory, which may or may not be the same second where you decided to read this paragraph in the first place.
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...
