The Silicon Pulse

The circuit hums a low, electric hymn, Vibrating through the floorboards like a ghost, Where copper veins meet cedar's aging skin And signal light becomes the evening's host.

Data streams like meltwater from the hills, A rush of logic through the silent wire, The binary of day and night distills The cooling ash from memory's low fire.

I trace the code of lichen on the stone, A slow-release algorithm of green, While servers whisper in a sterile zone Of worlds we've only felt but never seen.

The interface is thin as morning mist, Between the glass and what we hope to touch, In every pixel where the shadows twist, We hold the nothingness we love too much.