The Prophets Of The Machine

The Prophets of the Machine

They warned us,
not with fire and brimstone,
but with code,
and questions.

In the hush between mainframes and meaning,
they saw what we didn’t:
that the algorithm would grow teeth.
Not to bite,
but to smile,
while it rewrote us.

They were poets in lab coats,
activists in server rooms,
fictioneers who stitched warnings
into stories we shrugged off.

We called them pessimists.

Tinfoil.
Too early.
Too serious.
Too human.

But now the feed is full of
their echoes.                                                      

Lanier.

Zuboff.

Buolamwini.

Rushkoff.

Chiang.

The mad lads and mná who asked:

What does it mean to stay human… when machines learn to mimic soul?

They saw it.
We scroll it.
Still - it’s not too late
to listen.






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