Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.032 apart. A smaller distance means the lines are built more alike.

This number is read from the build of the lines. The bright edge is that number, carried outward until the pattern repeats.

Black Box Paradox

by Richard

−0.1507 + 0.1595i

Drawing the boundary…

The Dead-Beat

by Wilfred Owen

−0.1649 + 0.1305i

Drawing the boundary…

The poems

Each poem scrolls on its own, so the two texts stay beside each other.

Black Box Paradox

by Richard

Brain's a mystery, a million firing stars
Chemicals and whispers, forming who we are
Memories like phantoms, flickering in the night
Thoughts a tangled circuit, bathed in neon light

We build these machines, with logic cold and clean
But the human equation, a puzzle yet unseen

Black box paradox, can't crack the code, you see
Inside our own reflections, the greatest mystery
AI's a mirror, reflecting back the unknown
Is consciousness a program, a seed we've yet to sow?

Download dreams and visions, in a digital embrace
But can we upload feelings, the magic of the human race?
Learning's an explosion, synapses on fire
Is there a spark of something more, a flicker of desire?

We build these machines, with logic cold and clean
But the human equation, a puzzle yet unseen

Lost in the labyrinth, the map is in our minds
But the path to understanding, a riddle yet to find

Black box paradox, a future yet to unfold
Humanity's reflection, a story yet untold

The Dead-Beat

by Wilfred Owen

He dropped,—more sullenly than wearily,
Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,
And none of us could kick him to his feet;
Just blinked at my revolver, blearily;
 —Didn't appear to know a war was on,
Or see the blasted trench at which he stared.
"I'll do 'em in," he whined, "If this hand's spared,
I'll murder them, I will."

A low voice said,
"It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone,
Dreaming of all the valiant, that AREN'T dead:
Bold uncles, smiling ministerially;
Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun
In some new home, improved materially.
It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun."

We sent him down at last, out of the way.
Unwounded;—stout lad, too, before that strafe.
Malingering?  Stretcher-bearers winked, "Not half!"

Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh:
"That scum you sent last night soon died.  Hooray!"

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