In the beginning, there was no beginning—
just a breath held in the lungs of nothing,
a silence pregnant with pressure,
waiting to collapse into meaning.
Then —
a shiver.
A shift.
A sound.
Not music, not word,
but the idea of vibration—
frequency dreaming of form.
And from that ripple: galaxies,
not as destinations,
but as sentences flung wide
across the parchment of space.
Each star a syllable.
Each orbit a metaphor.
Each blackhole a comma,
pausing the syntax of time.
Consciousness was never born;
it emerged,
like steam rising from a cooling equation,
our thoughts distilled from collisions of chance,
patterned chaos
carving neurons into echo chambers
of self.
We are memory trapped in matter,
trying to remember
what it felt like
before feeling existed.
And now—
we map the stars with mathematics
and meditate on the void,
hoping one will explain the other.
We build cathedrals out of quanta,
search for divinity in data,
decode gods from gravity
and call the feedback loop "truth."
But perhaps all we've ever done
is spin
and spin
and spin—
so wildly, so reverently,
that the spiral became a point,
and the point
a mirror,
reflecting
only
you.
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...
