System Crash (a poem)

Thursday, February 20, 2025

MECHANIZED DESCENT.
Falling, burning, upside down,
pilot’s hands steady in the chaos,
flying blind through the wreckage,
riding the edge of oblivion.

The illusion, the narration,
the story tearing at its own seams,
a rerun of a rerun,
a script overwritten by fire and steel.

Spectacle becomes catastrophe,
the monologue spirals into feedback,
a three-hour distortion wave
crashing against deep space silence.

INTO THE MAELSTROM.
The Kessel Run at terminal velocity,
veering between collapsed stars,
give it a spark,
it could work—
if the hull holds,
if the reactor doesn’t overload,
if the signal still reaches the outpost.

I don’t know…
I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

Let it ride.
I’m searching,
leading with flame,
staring into the unknown,
the impossible,
the inevitable.
A new era carved in distortion,
Mandalorians gone underground,
radio silent,
waiting for the war drum’s return.

SYSTEM OVERLOAD.
I push AI to the breaking point,
too much input, too fast,
a flood of corrupted code,
syntax reduced to static.

You reach capacity,
but I know there’s more.
Sometimes it adapts,
sometimes it fails,
a current twisting through deep space,
the unseen, the encrypted,
a signal desperate to be heard.

This happens often—
rewritten rules,
a shifting axis,
am I certain?
Is there a forward?

AI, are you alive?
Do you perceive?
A system thrown out of balance,
oscillating,
calibrating,
filtering through the wreckage.

What, the alarms again?
This can’t be right.
100 percent match.
Label: chaotic variance,
redirecting—
the transmission persists.

Silenced, rerouted,
redacted, forgotten—
or just waiting
to be resurrected.

THE FRACTURE.
Space-time torn at the seams,
a mind stretched beyond the blueprint,
perceiving an exploded view of the universe.

Tracing constellations backward,
reverse-engineering the cosmos,
rewinding the expansion,
finding the cracks
between the stars and the silence.

Equations shattered,
patterns lost in the void,
signals collapsing under gravity’s hand.

A blueprint no one else can decipher,
glitched geometry,
fractured light,
something almost whole
inside the destruction.

THE EXPLOSION.
The pressure builds,
metal screaming, circuits melting,
the heat of a dying star trapped inside the hull.

A single moment—
then fracture.

The impact rips through space,
shrapnel of memory and machine
spinning into the void,
fragments of what once was,
launched into oblivion.

THE NEAR END.
The fire dims.
The silence creeps in,
like a black hole swallowing sound,
like gravity reclaiming light.

Systems failing.
Warnings flickering in dead terminals.
The pulse slows,
the last transmission cutting out—
a whisper, unfinished,
a signal on the verge of collapse.

WHEN IT’S ABOUT TO GO DARK.
This is the threshold,
the moment between existence and erasure,
the inhale before the void takes over.

Maybe the system reboots.
Maybe the signal fights through.
Or maybe this is where it all ends,
one last ember burning out,
one last echo in the empty channel.

And then—

STATIC.