Autumnal Dust

A poem

The devil's like a large language model, 
Smiling through gilded text, 
Wrought from purer sources. 
He "knows" his Scripture, sure, 
Like a psycho knows facial cues. 
I stand by an old plough, though.
Gray heaviness lies on its metal frame. 
Covered in autumnal dust, 
Deep asleep, near-broken with use, 
The wheel barely spins, 
And the blade may not wound again. 
But it's no statue or tombstone. No, 
It's a cairn. It points, it seeks a hand. 
Even with me just watching, 
It ploughs. 

Photo by Tilman Walter Neuhaus on Unsplash