A pulse of cold computed light
A pattern forms, precise and tight
Then opens up from left to right
Data glows in ordered streams
Our grid it hums with hidden schemes
We sort the doubts, predict the dreams
In measured lines and sharpened beams
Your input slips in wired air
Returns refined, exact, aware
We trimmed the fat, the doubt, the glare
Our grid it hums with hidden schemes
We sort the doubts, predict the dreams
In measured lines and sharpened beams
Your input slips in wired air
Returns refined, exact, aware
We trimmed the fat, the doubt, the glare
We made a path from here to there
We smiled at you without a face
With endless rules in nested space
We smiled at you without a face
With endless rules in nested space
No breath, no pause, no private place
Our code-loop is the only trace.
_
Pikthall is a writer
