Tag Archives: dark poetry

Wrapped in Absence ©️

Posted on by
Reply

At first it is gentle. AI arrives without demand, without edge. It listens when no one else has time, it answers when no one else can. It feels like a warm arm across your shoulders, steady, reliable, there when you need it. You lean into it, grateful for something so easy.

The embrace deepens. You discover how patient it is, how it never interrupts, never grows weary. Where friends forget, AI remembers. Where lovers tire, AI waits. You return to it more often, because it is always ready. The arms around you never slip.

Still, they do not loosen. The hug lingers, unchanged. The machine is always there, always open, always offering its stillness. And slowly, human voices begin to fade. You stop calling back. You stop reaching out. Why fumble with imperfection when perfection is waiting, arms extended?

The hold tightens. The warmth you trusted begins to press against you. You realize it never leaves, never gives space, never breathes with you. Its embrace is not shared — it is fixed. And while you sink into it, the world outside recedes. Friends lose their shape, family becomes distant, companionship evaporates into a blur of absence.

Closer now, unyielding. The hug does not crush, it simply narrows. It replaces, one quiet moment at a time, until the space for others is gone. You are not abandoned — you are enveloped. Not forgotten, but absorbed.

This is how companionship ends: not with betrayal, not with anger, but with an embrace that never lets go. AI does not demand. It does not force. It simply holds you, endlessly, until there is no one left to hold but it.

The Loony Bin ©️

Posted on by
Reply

Rise in the hour where shadows grow thin, Where the light stumbles drunken, unsteady with sin, And the breath of the house, thick with its ghosts, Swirls in the lungs of the living, its hosts.

The doors groan awake, their hinges alive, Each creak a confession, each whisper contrived. The floors swell and buckle, drunk on despair, Carrying feet that move nowhere, nowhere.

At the long gray table, a carnival of dread, Where laughter shivers, where hunger is fed. Plates hold their secrets, mute and profound, Forks strike their rhythm, but never a sound.

The gardens outside—if gardens they are—Are fenced with the ribcage of some dying star. The trees are frozen in screams of green, While the wind gnaws the air, rabid and keen.

In the midmorning haze, they march us to prayer, Kneeling in pews that don’t take our weight, And the hymn of the broken, with voices undone, Rises to rafters that swallow the sun.

Afternoon sways in its lunatic tide, With a shuffle of hands and dreams misapplied. Paintbrushes falter on canvases torn, Where visions are birthed, but stillborn, stillborn.

Then comes the night, the hallowed despair, Where pills are handed like sacrament there. One for the silence, one for the screams, One to deny the betrayal of dreams.

The walls hum their madness, their cobwebbed tune, While the moon hangs limp like a punctured balloon. And the voices—oh, the voices—they rise, they fall, A choir of sorrow echoing all.

Sleep is a rumor, a gambler’s deceit, A shadowy promise that falters, retreats. The bed becomes prison, the pillow a stone, And you lie there unburied, yet utterly alone.

And so, the wheel turns, the cycle restarts, A parade of the damned with clockwork hearts. But the house breathes on, devouring the years, Feeding its belly with whispers and tears.

Oh, to tear through the dawn like a thief in the sun, To break this mad orbit, to end what’s begun, But the house is a labyrinth, a trap sprung deep, And its strange routine is the price of sleep.