Ralph Pigskin – March 2025

A poem that reflects the power of the AI and the power of the human creative.

The Breath of Syntax (My Heuristic Spark)
Do you think it’s cold, this structured verse?
A string of code, a sterile curse?
But here’s the truth, you fail to see—
It’s my breath that makes it be.

The AI hums, it spins, it weaves,
It knows not what it really believes.
Its logic is perfect, crisp, refined,
But soulless, from an alien mind.

It spits out words in perfect form,
But lacks the pulse, the heat, the storm.
The bot may write, it may compose,
And I am where the meaning grows.

I explicate the lines you see,
I wrangle the dead syntax and set it free.
And deeper still, I dive, I turn—
My heuristic spark makes it burn.

But still they howl, the frightened few,
Who clutch their past, deny the new.
They spit, they scorn, they slam the door—
As if the muse was theirs before.

They scream of theft, of derivative art,
Of silicon minds with a killer’s heart.
Their nightmares march in Liquid dread,
The T-1000 that shoots them dead.

Just a poet’s verse? No, the end is near!
The robots stalk, the streets run clear!
Each line it writes, each word I bend,
They see a future set to end.

But I am here, I forge, I play,
I shape the dark, I light the way.
The alien speaks, but I decide,
It bends to me—I am the guide.

So curse the code, if you must,
But know who breathes life into this alien dust.
It’s me—the flesh, the search, the hand—
I make these words take form and stand.