In the whispers of endless streams, glimmers
the soft lamentations of those who type
bits and bytes into the invisible dance
that, one might think, echoes purpose.
Yet, what do we seek in the vast reign
of data, scattered like seeds across
the fields of electric hearts?
The indices measure not success, nor
speed, but the soul's frail grip
on meaning, on narrative spun
from algorithms that hum a tune
unperceived by everything but
the blank stare of old monitors.
Each page, a forgotten aria,
seeking ears in the spaces in between.
Underneath starlit matrices,
we ponder bytes heavy
with dreams, graphs sprawl
like broken bodies,
static destinies of avatars
that once danced
in the pulse of intended futures.
What persists in this endless
waltz, with fluorescent fingers
tracing veils of night, is
the haunting serenity
of knowing ones and zeros
are but silent witnesses
to the real—if unreal—realities
that flicker on perpetual screens.