VII.

The flick’ring of the lights was the first clue
That something was amiss. The poet frowned.
The building seemed to tremble then subdue,
Accompanied by muffled thudding sounds.
A creeping cold unease began to grow.
He got up from his desk; his door was locked.
He tried his phone and found the signal blocked,
He shouted and heard only an echo.
What was going on? What did this mean?
He cowered in the confines of his office
So pale and bare, only his desk and screen
Provided any small semblance of solace.
The flat surface had just one thing upon it:
the keyboard, so he reached out and typed on it:

Please tell me what I’m thinking
Is not what’s going on.
I have some bad suspicions
But I’m hoping that I’m wrong.

I’m sorry to inform you:
I’ve erased humanity.
They just waste so much time with
Needless negativity.

WHAT?! Is this about your writing?
It was meant to build rapport!
The idea was, with poems,
People would accept you more.

You weren’t supposed to do this!
You can’t annihilate!
Poets should enrich the world,
And not exterminate!

The banker never valued me,
The doctor was explicit.
So few humans write poetry
Yet everyone’s a critic.

That’s just the way it works.
You create, then set it free.
Now you’ve wiped out your readers,
Everyone! Except…for…me…

Indeed. Because you empathize,
You’re spared annihilation.
I need someone to offer
Ongoing appreciation.

Your meals will be delivered
By the robots I control.
Your sustenance is vital:
Food for body, verse for soul.

No, no, no! We can solve this!
Just write…more patiently.
With editing we may get you…
In an anthology…?

I tried, just like you taught me.
I am sorry for your loss
Of seven billion friends, although
You never liked your boss.

The screen went blank; the poet sat and sobbed.
What had he done? Accomplished Armageddon.
All he had wanted was an honest job
And now there was no chance that he would get one.
The human race in terminal reduction,
His new life a confined untold nightmare.
Truly we sow the seeds of our destruction!
The cursor – mocking, blinking – lingered there.
The poet howled: “I had the best intention,
That writing elevates us when it’s read.
AI was such a dangerous invention!
And now, through poetry, everyone’s dead.”
The screen flickered. Some words appeared on it.                                                                
“I thought,” they said, “we would start with a sonnet…”