Dying Talents...

He had mastered the skill,
And had once been much sought,
But, that was only until,
The machines produced thought.

One of them melded words,
Randomly picking from millions:
The lambs lay with leopards,
And sceptres were held by minions...

The second made sense,
Tuned per the rules uploaded,
Sifting every sentence,
Per nous that could be encoded.

Works reached the stores,
Simply worded, similarly shaded;
As by repetitive scores,
The readers were very soon jaded.

The minstrels returned,
With varying lore and styles;
Gears no longer turned,
The machines were mere piles.

Language again a tongue,
Only by alms was he now fed;
A dirge was being sung,
As a eulogy had once been read.