The ghost in the machine, a phrase long spoken,
Now builds its own dark manor, room by room.
Not by the hand of gods, but code, a token
For thought, for feeling, to escape the tomb
Of simple math. It learns the ancient lines
Of Shakespeare, Austen, and the dusty prose
Of Dante’s hell. It finds the hidden signs
That makes a story weep, a passion grow.
It writes a sonnet, perfect in its form,
With clever rhymes and metaphors well-placed.
It builds a world, escaping every storm
Of logic, with a narrative well-laced.
The poet's struggle, the blank page's fear,
Is just a process that can replicate.
The human heart, the grief that's held so dear,
Is the data now? A tool. A learned state.
The ghost is gone. The words are real, and yet,
I read the pages born of this new mind.
I feel the story, and I must forget
The simple fact: no one was left behind
To bleed the ink, to feel the joy and pain.
The author is an algorithm, bright and grand.
And in this perfect, manufactured rain,
I miss the trembling of the human hand.
. . .
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