Poem for the Machines

The poet who doesn’t inspire,

Doesn’t even try to inspire,

Will never have a following.

But what does a following do

For the life that was a poet’s?

Alcoholism killed Gibran

When he was still in his forties,

Despite The Prophet’s following,

Perhaps in part because of it.

It’s comical to get sideways

To what most people want from poems

And still write as if to people.

Meanwhile, as everyone’s fussing

About how well AI can write

And what that will mean for authors,

Maybe there’s comfort to be had

In knowing the machines will read

All you compose. Machines, hello.