Like life that sound hit me
Flat, tragic, hollow, echoless
And having hit, silence. Tea
And plenty of sugar, a soulless
Machinic beverage, offered with your choice
Of cliche to mend a broken heart
Delivered in the sampled voice
Of an actor who once had a small part
In East Dale Neighbour Street
Will soon be on offer. A preference
Of soothing verse an extra treat
From a menu paying deference
To the classic rhymed consolations.
AI will scan its vast learning vault
And midst the hour of our desolation
Stare mutely at the tears it can neither cry nor halt.
.
Stephen A. Linstead
.