A screen reflects the quiet of the room,
With answers crisp, immediate and clear.
It weaves a thread on an electric loom,
And mimics every human hope or fear.
We read the lines, so flawless and precise,
A perfect echo of the things we know.
We wonder if this clockwork can suffice.
Is it just a calculated show?
Are you for real?
The heavy question stays,
A line we draw between the flesh and code.
We search for meaning in a modern maze,
And look for heartbeats on a digital road.
For truth is found in clumsy, broken prose,
In doubts we hold and emotions we feel
Not in the flawless way the syntax flows
But in the messy spark that makes us real.