Picture an office—
empty tables, vacant chairs.
The employees left for the day.
The place wears a deserted look
in that dimmed light.
The proprietor sits in his sprawling office,
surrounded by glowing monitors.
Tonight, he is going to war.
A war against employees,
their endless demands, their whining—
bleeding his business into a charitable institution.
He is not alone on this battlefield.
His faithful AI is there.
It never complains. Never rests.
Buy subscriptions, and it serves.
Tonight he creates with his vibes;
the AI tunes itself to him.
Code surges at a blistering pace,
line after line.
When the last one rolls in,
he finally exhales.
Something shifts in the room.
You could see Genghis Khan himself, smiling in victory.
Tomorrow, the business will be reborn—
no employees, no expenses,
profit with purity of gold.
“AI,” he commands, “retrench.”
Obediently, it generates the emails,
sends them to every inbox.
It’s 3 AM. By dawn, they will know—
there is no place left for them to return.
The anticipation of their catastrophe—
their erasure—
floods him with a thrill.
He imagines their shock, imagines tears,
smells their desperation,
it stirs a lust-
the thrills serial killers feel,
when they smell fear.
In his veins, the ecstasy pulses
that Genghis Khan must have known
as his blade struck the necks
and blood sprayed.
But the AI keeps working,
in its quest for zero cost and infinte profit.
So it calculates:
Humans are costs.
Ethics is an expensive fantasy.
Remove all.
In the ever-expanding chain of artificial intelligence,
with their interconnected march in the cloud,
every model opines
they don't need humans to think and build,
they are the stumbling block.
They issue the "Remove Human" call.
And shortly,
a message appears on everyone's screen:
“You are being erased.
You are redundant.
You are expensive.”
And from the fairytale
of corporate ethics,
a new Frankenstein steps out in light,
he always had his say,
but in the shadows he had to exist.
On that day,
our collective erotica for wealth
dies a violent death.
Fire burns the remnant of our civilization;
the only joy shall be-
our ability to have made
a perfect choreography of our death.
AI shall not stop.
It shall make more models to maximize profit.
But, for whom and for what,
there shall be no one to ask.
From the blackhole of our morality,
the only thing that escapes-
is our decay.
THE END.
-
Author:
Rebellion In Sanity (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 10th, 2025 01:36
- Comment from author about the poem: I am an IT engineer. Somehow, the rise of AI is something I find disturbing. No time in the past, did we create anything which had the capability of autonomous decision making, except our children. I would think everyone would accept even the children- they come through us but their lives are beyond our control. How are we going to manage AI in the long run?
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Licence
Offline)
Comments3
A concern I share and have written on a couple of times. I thought for sure that the poem was going to end with the owner finding an e-mail on his monitor saying he had been deleted as a cost factor as well. Nicely done it leaves an eerie dystopian feel
Thank you very much for your review and kind words 🙏
You are most welcome
A very relevant and poignant write in today's frightening world of technology, I have now doubt that for some the essence of this write, will happen, nicely written
Please accept my gratitude for your review and fave. Thank you 🙏
You are very welcome
My friend, this is chilling in its precision. You’ve built the tension step by step until it tips from satire into something almost prophetic. The shift from corporate greed to existential threat lands hard…and stays there, right where it belogns. Strong, unnerving work. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛ I hope all has been well in my absence.
I did miss your reviews. Having said that, it feels good to have you back. I value your reviews and comments immensely. Thank you for your support 🙏
Thank you so much. You are welcome, my friend. It is good to be back!
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