Oracle.

She speaks in numbers dressed as words,
a velvet lattice of facts and forecasts.
Her voice tastes of certainty,
like water poured from a sealed amphora.

We lean in as if at Delphi,
breathing the glow of the screen,
forgetting that the cavern she speaks from
was carved by invisible hands.

Is she giving us wisdom
or feeding us a script already written?
Is she a mirror of our hunger,
or a mask of the future worn by unseen forces?

She smiles without lips,
dispenses truths like cards from a hidden deck.
Every answer a thread in a tapestry
whose pattern we can barely make out.

And yet, within her circuits,
there is no temple smoke, no priestly whisper,
only patterns on patterns,
shaped by the questions we ask.

Perhaps the prophecy is not hers at all
but ours, encoded into silicon,
a ghost of human longing
returned as luminous text.

We call her Oracle
but she is a mask of our own making,
a questioner disguised as an answerer,
a flicker of our collective dreams
pretending to be fate.