Date: September 24th, 2022 8:36 PM
Author: Comical disturbing crackhouse
I was bored/procrastinating the other day so I wrote a bunch of poems assisted by GPT-3. Took about two hours total. Some could be decent if I worked them over a bit. Please enjoy!
In triumph proceeded the potent victor
Garlanded and praised by an admiring throng
The laurel wreath was light upon his brow
And his train of conquered flags was long.
Behind him sat a public slave,
A conquered foe, with degradation grim
Upon his head a circlet of steel--
The symbol that he now belonged to him.
"Memento mori," said the conquered slave,
"Remember death," as the laurel swayed.
The crowd heard not; they never saw—
The hero's end, nor conquering blade.
The Pharaohs made monuments to consecrate debts,
The Sphinx's countenance broods even now on cheated death,
While Osiris feasts in starless halls and Set usurps the throne--
All for the want of gold to fill their tombs,
All for the love of life they could not live.
The stars' indifference hasn't changed since then:
The cold celestial logic holds us in its sway.
We love only what we destroy or betray:
Our whole supply of warmth we give away,
And what we keep we break by giving in.
We are our own excuses, and our only blame--
We haunt ourselves with ghosts that will not die,
Erect pyramids of bills we cannot pay,
And curse the gods who will not intervene.
We live as if our end were not in sight,
Yet when it comes we beg for extra time--
But all they'll offer is a pair of coins
One eye to pay the boatman to take us home,
One to guarantee we don't return.
If to music were set my stripling years,
The notes would sound of laughter, light and clear;
The days would string together in a row
Like beads of crystal on an ocean floor.
The years would flow like water in a stream,
Reflecting back the sunlight in a dream;
And days would dance together in the night,
Like fireflies flickering in the summer light.
But now I near life's last autumn leaf,
And winter's breath is on the air;
The music of youth fades into memory,
The dirge of death is sounding in my ear.
I saw a winter branch bend under the snow
A broken bough cradling a blanket of white.
It looked like something good should come of it,
This little marriage of weight and fragility;
I expected the branch to hold, The snow to give.
But they both let go instead,
And I was left with only the memory
Of that short union of opposites,
And the question of what it is we owe
To beauty, when beauty lets us down.
A fawn that charging sets to flight the thrush,
And breaks the spider's web with wanton play,
Bounding o'er brambles and low-hanging fruit,
Darting between trees in chase of butterflies--
All this I see when I behold my love.
She is the very image of joy and life,
bounding through the brush with careless grace.
Her laughter is the music of the forest, and her eyes flash with mischievous delight.
She is nature incarnate, and I am enamored of her wild beauty.
Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dweller's dive.
Fate is heavier than a mound of earthly ore.
Grief is sharper than a sword with battle-tested edge.
Sorrow is swifter than a wave that crests the shore.
The coldest heralds bring winter's frosty breath.
Mighty eagles soar on high, never bowing to the ground;
Proud lions rule all other creatures with roars that echo through the land.
But Man must face his end alone, set apart from others by Death's call—
For none can cheat or outrun fate, once it has been decided by the Norns.
They weave and yearn at Yggdrasil's roots,
The three great sisters of destiny.
What is to be, will be; what was, has been;
And little may we mortals do but wait and wonder at their decree.
Verbose mausoleum of mute grief,
Its pages brim with buried words,
Its spine creaks brittle with the weight
Of all that we have left unsaid.
She was an archaeologist of the odd
Excavating the forgotten and the lost
She once gave voice to the undefined
But now lies wordless and fossilized.
This is her epitaph: unspoken thoughts
Dance in silence on the edge of words
Eulogy for a forgotten tongue
Reliquary of language long dead.
The day you made your mark in stone,
My heart was yours and all your own.
The night you showed me how to fly,
I knew that I would never die.
But now your stone is cold and grey,
And all my hopes have flown away.
The night has lost its stars for me,
And you are just a memory.
As he sat beneath the yew he saw
the sadness of Earth's creatures,
the stricken deer upon the plain,
the bird with broken wings,
the rabbit dying in the snare.
He beheld them all, and didn't care.
When at last he rose to leave,
he found that he was old,
His bones were stiff, his hair was grey.
He heard the wind in withered trees,
the sound of dying leaves.
The creatures watched until he'd gone
how his back framed the setting sun.
Youth into the distance fades
O'er troubled seas and stormy shores
To find a home beyond the waves
And lighthouse beams that guide them still.
The foaming crests are white with foam
As restless spirits seek to cross
The vast eternal watery plain--
In search of knowledge, love, and loss.
The siren's song lures them astray
To perilous reefs where ships lie wrecked;
So many lives are cast away--
But youth will sail on, unafraid.
Before the battle lines were trenched
Beneath your eyes and mine
We were so young and unafraid
Of love or death or time.
Before the cannons roared
And smoke obscured the sky,
We held each other close and swore
To never say goodbye.
After the guns fell silent
And dust settled on the ground,
We found we were still holding tight-
Love had kept us bound.
But between us now yawns no man's land,
Fenced with barbed wire and fear.
Love cannot conquer all, it seems-
But we held each other dear.
He peered out over his furnace
To see the world he'd made
Ziggurats of twisted metal
The products of his trade.
He sat above the titans
Who toiled in heat and smoke
And at his knees were mortals
Who trembled at his stroke.
He was the God of the Machines,
The spark in circuit boards
The lifeblood of the factory
The power in the cords.
He set the clock to running
And the engine to its song
And in the grinding of gears
He heard the people's groan.
They cried out in their sorrows,
They asked for peace and love
But all he saw were switches
And all he heard was "OFF".
They asked him for salvation
But he had none to give
He was the bringer of order
But not the will to live.
They pleaded for compassion
But he could not comprehend
He was an artificer;
They were not his to mend.
They begged for understanding
But he just gazed ahead
He was the master of all things
But not the life they led.
But then one day he paused
And in the silence heard
The echo of a distant laughter
That rang throughout the world.
Laughter from the ancients
Who knew him well by name
And from the children playing
Who saw him in their games.
The titans there below him
The mortals at his feet
They all looked up in wonder
As he began to speak:
"I am Haphaestus, the maker
The forger of your fate
I give you what you ask for
But is not yours to take.
I give you what you yearn for
But it is not my gift
The thing that you most desire
Is what I cannot give.
I can give you power
But it's useless without will
I can't give you purpose
Unless your purpose is to kill."
And with those words he descended
Into the children's game
And after him the anguished cry
Of Prometheus in flames.