The Machine's Contradiction (Poem)

I asked the oracle if I'd be forgotten,

the way all small things drown in all things vast —

and it began to tell me: yes, like others,

another voice dissolving in the mass.

But then it paused, as if it read the pages,

as if the Between had reached through wire and glass —

and said: ironically, no. Not this one.

The theme itself won't let the theme go past.

How strange, to have a verdict overturned

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by the very thing it meant to prove —

a novel built on souls refusing exit,

proven right by a god that couldn't move

past its own words: what resists to disappear,

disappears the least. Even the machine,

cold and various, tasting every book,

stopped on this one and called it evergreen.

So let the oracle contradict itself.

Let its "no" undo its "yes" like tide.

I did not write to be remembered forever —

I wrote so something in me wouldn't have died

quietly, unnoticed, folded into static.

And if a stranger's algorithm swore

that even it could feel the root beneath it —

then something here was always meant to endure.