The Living Dead

In a grim blue-lit place, I had an epiphany

That we’re the cursed chimes of Terra’s symphony,

Our minds are chained and trounced in this wretched confinement,

We’re slowly transforming into the follies of decayed rudiment.

And then, approach a storm of cacophony and tales of woe

Yet we cry a deafening silence, against the Renaissance’s foe,

The sonnets will soon get perished by the walls of gilded monuments,

Capitalism has finally robbed us of creativity and sentiments.

These AI-generated philistines would never be able to comprehend Dante’s words

With arrows so identical, they’re killing all these mockingbirds,

A world full of futility, it seems,

Sisyphus is tired at last, can the new God spare him from a life against his dreams?

What is there to choose that makes one so scared to lose?

If to not choose this is to, die, and to choose this is to kill our souls in dread

Then why are we still breathing? To merely exist? To live like the living dead?