A.I is the bane of art, writing, etc.... its taking the talent out of the equation...... anyone can now be a writer or artist thanks to A.I's help. (doing it for them).... no talent required or even learning or effort for that matter. when A.I ceates art it takes millions of images and creates one from it, so its using the talent of those it is stealing from to create the one image for the one asking of it... same with writing, you can tell it to "write a poem (in whatever genre you choose)" and it will create it for you... as an example from another post.... if i were to ask it to create a poem in say obscure words about love and loss, this is an example of what i would get......
Elegy of the Aether
In twilight's argent embrace, we wove our tale,
A symphony of ephemeral ardor, whispered in veiled alcoves.
Your eyes, cerulean orbs, held secrets of forgotten constellations,
And your touch, a sonnet etched upon my skin.
We danced upon the precipice of limerence,
Where lachrymose skies wept for our ephemeral union.
Our love, a threnody sung by spectral winds,
Echoed through the hollows of ancient yew trees.
But fate, that capricious wyrd, wove threads of sorrow,
And our amour fou unraveled like gossamer spun by moonlight.
You became the bête noire haunting my dreams,
A phantasmagoria of longing and regret.
I wandered the lacunae of memory, seeking solace,
Yet found only the saudade of your absence.
Each dawn, a desideratum unfulfilled,
As I traced your name in dew-kissed grass.
Now, you are the chiaroscuro that stains my soul,
A threnody whispered by the zephyrs of oblivion.
In this nocturne, I mourn our fractured éclat,
And yearn for the serendipity of our lost infinity.
Farewell, my anamnesis, my luminal love.
or..........
Lament of the Ephemeral
In the crepuscular hours, shadows lengthen,
A requiem for moments lost, whispered by the zephyrs.
The petrichor of memory clings to my skin,
As I traverse the labyrinthine corridors of grief.
Each vesper, a fading ember in the hearth of existence,
I mourn the saudade of your touch, your luminal grace.
The threnody of our fractured bond echoes,
A symphony of lacunae, unanswered questions.
The serendipity that once wove our destinies,
Now unraveled, a tapestry of frayed threads.
You, my bête noire, the chiaroscuro of my soul,
A phantasmagoria haunting the chambers of my heart.
I seek solace in the lachrymose rain, its tears cleansing,
Yet it cannot wash away the anamnesis of our love.
The desideratum of your presence lingers,
A ghostly whisper in the aether, forever elusive.
Farewell, my ephemeral muse, my silent lament.
A.I is nothing more than another level of falseness in this false world we have immersed ourselves into....it doesnt help you, it slowly replaces you
