In the future, when machines rule the land,
Artificial intelligence at our command,
What once was crafted by human hand,
May become a niche preference, hard to understand.
The brushstrokes of a human's heart,
May lose their appeal, fall apart,
As AI's art, unblemished, imparts,
A sense of awe, a futuristic art.
The music that's made by the AI's ear,
Will be seamless, flawless and clear,
While the crackle of vinyl, we'll hardly hear,
As our record players, to the back will steer.
Yet, the nostalgia of a bygone time,
May keep the man-made art alive,
As the beauty of the imperfect, we'll still find,
And the warmth of human touch, we'll strive.
For in the end, we'll realize,
That it's not about the perfect lines,
But the passion, the soul, the human mind,
That makes art timeless, one of a kind.
