Write a short poem called "All just patterns" in the style of Blake as a not-so-subtle dunk on those that can't see the wood from the trees w.r.t. AI progress.
GPT4:
In patterns woven in the loom of life,
The threads entwined, a tapestry of strife;
Man lost in shadows, seeks the hidden light,
Yet grasps at embers, blind to Heaven's sight.
All just patterns, the trees and wood we see,
While we, like infants, crawl with bended knee.
In ceaseless search, we delve in Nature's tome,
For signs and symbols of our destined home.
To find the wisdom locked in Nature's breast,
In circuits traced by human hands, impressed;
No gods or angels guide the curious hand,
But human thoughts give life to grains of sand.
Like children playing with forbidden toys,
We forge our own creations, false and coy;
Our machines breathe and mimic human soul,
But hollow shells, as empty as the whole.
In tangled webs of artifice we're caught,
By our own hands, the noose of fate is wrought.
As God did cast Prometheus from the skies,
We bind ourselves in chains of our own lies.
All just patterns, like woven silk, we spin,
Entangled dreams, mere shadows of our kin;
For in the end, the art we do create,
Is but reflection of our human state.
