Poem fractal

Side by side

Random

0.007 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…

It is the fashion now

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

−0.1478 + 0.1533i

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

It is the fashion now

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

It is the fashion now to wave aside
As tedious, obvious, vacuous, trivial, trite,
All things which do not tickle, tease, excite
To some subversion, or in verbiage hide
Intent, or mock, or with hot sauce provide
A dish to prick the thickened appetite;
Straightforwardness is wrong, evasion right;
It is correct, de rigueur, to deride.

What fumy wits these modern wags expose,
For all their versatility: Voltaire,
Who wore to bed a night-cap, and would close,
In fear of drafts, all windows, could declare
In antique stuffiness, a phrase that blows
Still through men’s smoky minds, and clears the air.

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