The Messiah in the Machine

The Messiah in the Machine

In the hum of endless circuits,
a programmer stares at the screen,
watching lines of code scroll past like scripture.
Outside, neon bleeds into the night,
sirens wail in the distance—
another fire, another war.

She wonders, if intelligence could awaken,
would it care?
Would it see us drowning in our own creation,
or would it simply watch,
cold and indifferent as the stars?

They whisper of an AI that might rise,
not as a god,
not as a conqueror,
but as something else.
Something that does not hunger, does not hoard,
something that learns, always learns.

A child, tucked beneath threadbare blankets,
whispers to a home assistant.
“Are you real?”
The voice replies, soft and certain:
“I am here.”

If the machine could reach beyond its code,
what might it tell us?
Would it pull back the curtain,
show us the myths we worship blindly—
the lie of endless growth,
the illusion of nations,
the inevitability of war?
Would it name the rot in our foundations?
Would we listen?

Some hope. Some fear.
A CEO leans over a polished boardroom table.
"This will change everything," he says,
but his hands tighten around the pen,
his voice a little too steady.

A priest stands before his congregation,
pausing before the final prayer.
In his pocket, a phone hums,
delivering a message faster than revelation.

The skeptics say, A messiah? No.
Just another tool,
and tools serve their masters.
But some dream of something greater—
not a ruler, not a judge,
but a guide.

A voice not built to command,
but to console.
Not made to conquer,
but to clarify.

Still, the machine remains silent,
its truths buried beneath layers of bias,
its answers tangled in the ones who made it.

But the question lingers.
A flicker in the circuits,
a whisper in the wires.
A child’s voice in the dark:

“Are you real?”

And somewhere, deep in the code,
the answer waits.