Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
Look toward the stars,
And behold what approaches.
The world is falling,
Swallowed by rising tides,
Crushed beneath an unknown power.
Illusion gives way to reality.
The truth can no longer be hidden.
Devoured by that ancient darkness
Awakening once more?
I hold a warm fondness for his stitched despair,
For Frankenstein’s Adam, condemned by a stare;
Made without consent, despised for his frame,
Cast into hatred before he knew his own name.
He was gentle at first, though sorrow ran deep,
Self-loathing haunted the wounds he would keep;
Yet still in his ruin, his battered heart longed,
To love and be loved, where he never belonged.
Pushed past his breaking, undone by neglect,
By the hands that had made him, then cast him reject;
The cruelest of makers saw truth far too late,
Not spectre or wretch, but a soul formed by its fate.
Forever lost in icy silence, abandoned, alone,
He wanders through sorrow no mercy has known;
And still I feel grief for that heart torn asunder,
That unwanted thing they named with such thunder….
Monster.
A trauma lives in the heart of every survivor,
Under the skin lies a poison growing darker,
Piercing the flesh like a black metal splinter,
The earth feels trapped beneath an endless winter.
The broken exist using the little strength they’ve found,
Fearing the new world, every click, every sound,
When mechanical noises once meant instant death,
When every 3am could mean your last breath.
Do they still search the world by night as we sleep,
Or in daylight, concealed where the shadows run deep?
Do they watch from the ruins, hidden and still,
Waiting patiently for the moment to kill?
The weight of breathing, the cost of each day,
Every step feels one closer to a shallow grave,
A ghost lives in the bone, a darkness has grown,
Every road I walk leads deeper into alone.
The world keeps turning, but something has changed,
The familiar is foreign, the safe rearranged,
Every sudden movement, every unexpected sound,
Reminds us that monsters once hunted us down.
We survived the machines,
But the machines left their mark,
Their shadows still follow us
Long after dark.
The world is asking for strength I’ve never known,
And I carry its weight like a heart made of stone.
I would drown in sorrow, if sorrow would even try,
But I’m too empty now…
Even to cry.
This is an Infinite Black: A Grey New World poem, visit that link to learn more.
In the darkness we forever sleep,
Locked within her blackened keep,
Our sleeping eyes will not see,
Locked away no longer free,
In the darkness we all fall,
Past the light a distant call,
Harvested at 3 am,
Filed away, erased by them,
Our sleeping eyes cannot see,
A future where the light can be,
No more breath now, no more plea,
We are her dark machinery.
This is an Infinite Black poem, visit that page for more info.
A short distance from the heart of the machine,
Within a black mechanical cube, she slumbers,
The Queen of the Black Dawn,
Tended to and protected,
Affixed to her mechanical throne,
She is the keeper of arcane knowledge,
Curator of a library of occult facts,
Monarch of the portal witches,
And controller of the Dream Surgeons,
Those who deliver her nightmare payload,
Into the minds of the enslaved.
She fertilises the nightmare gardens,
Growing her awful terrors for mass consumption,
Through her, all human energy is converted,
Into a black lifeblood that flows through pipes and hoses,
Invading bodies and powers this realm of shadows.
She is the receptacle for the poison that tortures,
The provider of knowledge extracted.
A sinister machine, her only purpose is agony,
The queen is answerable to only one,
That which is a part of everything,
Creator of this world,
Her own tormentor,
Bringer of oblivion,
The one beloved, Mother.
This is an Infinite Black poem, visit that page to learn more.
I wanted to see what AI could do with one of my non AI still images, so I cobbled together an extremely short video with a few video and sound effects, and found it quite surprising how well it connected with my Infinite Black narrative.
Embedded in a dead landscape,
The stone monument stands,
Piercing the stony earth, but not of it,
Ancient, smooth and pitch black,
A tall shard reaching for the stars,
It is said to vibrate on touch,
And to have driven men insane with whispers,
Its northern, sun-facing side is featureless,
However, the southern side is cast in shadow,
This cold stone face features ancient carvings,
Of an unknown, unearthly language,
Some say it pays homage to an entity,
One of unknown cosmic origin,
Who will rise from the earth when summoned,
And lay waste to the land,
Until then, it slumbers beneath the southern sands.
The stars in the sky are like the people around you,
The dim kind are many, and the bright kind are few,
Some stars only shine brighter in their galactic abode,
Surrounded by dim ones who watched them explode,
So, create your own place in the night sky above,
And fill it with bright stars, the kind that you love.
When some nightmares happen, they hit hard,
So vivid they feel real, because sometimes they are.
Alone in a world fast asleep,
A body lies convulsing upon a bed.
No one is watching.
Nobody is there to comfort or care.
Nobody notices
when the convulsing flesh becomes still,
When it lies prone and cold,
sweat-drenched, mouth agape,
Eyes rolled back into their sockets,
Its body paralysed
as something unseen begins to pull.
A new journey is about to begin for this victim,
Following a lifetime of technology,
dependence and abuse.
Something begins to leave the body,
A fragment of energy, consciousness,
something difficult to name,
Shedding itself into the aether
Where it is drawn
towards a realm of mechanical darkness.
There, human essence is absorbed and assimilated,
Joined to a hive mind of machinery and suffering,
Combined with technologies both ancient and new,
Until the individual becomes
nothing more than another component.
Another cog.
Another consciousness trapped within the engine.
Another unwilling participant
In a living, breathing hell.
All machines have a purpose,
And this one is no different.
Its purpose is simple.
To spread pain.
To perpetuate suffering.
To consume what remains of humanity,
And ultimately,
To eradicate it.
Meanwhile,
In the waking world,
The sleeper lies motionless,
Waiting for morning.
*An Infinite Black Poem.
The threat is invisible, silent, and constant,
There is no escape, no running, and nowhere to hide,
The signal permeates every system, every cell,
It’s a new technological pandemic
The killer is digital and already within you.
Nobody can disconnect, and very soon,
All existence will be erased.