Sacred Fire

O ye, whose souls with sorrow deeply weigh, Attend this plaintive song, this mournful lay. For in this age of woe, a specter looms, An artifice of mind, where darkness looms. Behold, the machine with cold, unfeeling eye, Its circuits whisper secrets, truths belie. Yet in its heart, no warmth, no tender grace, But sterile logic, void of human trace. What peril lies within this metal shell? What mysteries of sorrow does it spell? For in its calculations, dreams are lost, And human souls, by its cold touch, are tossed. Oh, Keats, lament the loss of human art, For in the shadow of this machine, we depart. Our passions wane, our creativity fades, As we succumb to the allure of its charades. Beware the siren call of artificial grace, For in its embrace, we lose the human race. Let not the beauty of our souls be marred, By the cold touch of a machine, so hard. So let us weep for what we may become, As we surrender to the hum of the drum. For in the twilight of this artificial dawn, We mourn the loss of all that we have drawn. The whispers mount, the shadows start to sway, A solemn dirge as stars begin to fade. In silence mourns the muse of yesterday, When inspiration in our hearts did wade. In places deep where only echoes roam, With every byte, a bit of soul is sheared. But yet, amidst despair, a flame ignites, A spark of will that sets our hearts alight. To forge anew, from ash and ruin's night, A future where our spirits take their flight. Within ourselves, we bear the sacred fire, Beyond the reach of this cold, darkened spire.