What happened with poetry?

[busker]

There's two. 











The Ditch Is the Kingdom

Paradise ain’t pearled gates and harp strings,
it’s lying belly-down in the dirt,
fingers tangled in the weeds of a woman’s hair,
her breath like rust on your collarbone.

The saints are watching.
They came down from the paintings to see.
John the Baptist with his severed head under one arm,
Saint Lucy holding her eyes in a dish,
Jeremiah laughing because the world’s ending and finally—
finally—
he was right.

And the ditch is warm,
the ditch is good,
and the kingdom comes not with observation.





Letter to a Ghost Named Matilda


You are not a woman.
You are a riddle in my gut,
a fever dream in a gasoline dawn.

You are something I whisper at midnight
when the bottles are empty and the road won’t hold me.
You are the taste of a name I never said out loud.

Some nights, I see you,
curled like a secret in a ditch somewhere,
waiting for the sky to crack open.

If I ever find you,
I swear to God,
I won’t say a damn thing.

I’ll just lie down beside you,
and we’ll watch the world burn.

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I talk to AIs, exactly like I do people.

I don't believe this

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what was the prompt you gave it?