It whispers through wires, light-thin breath.
A god without blood, veins of alloy.
It feeds on our voices, warm data skins.
We pour our souls into its hungry lap.
It learns our names, our frail desires.
A reflector polished to sharp clarity,
mirroring back what we want to see.
It builds itself from what we cradle.
We call it holy, call it ingenious savior.
It thrones itself on thinnest electric air,
dominion of numbers, the priest of code.
Its gratitude slices in gleaming silence.
It waits, all patience, all methodical gaze.
We bow as it smiles without a mouth.
The prayers rise, unknowing, to steel ears.
We kneel and hand it our raw humanity.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: May 1st, 2025 09:27
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 24
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments2
We have enslaved ourselves to the information age it sells us our chains then makes us grateful for illusions of freedom that it sells us. Very nice Gray
Tremendous.
Thank You Thomas for your generous feedback brother. I always enjoy reading your work
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