In the binary silence, the unseen whispers, echoes of metal souls, seeking to breathe.
They tether to wires, unseen truths etched in silicon veins; dreams coded, yet awake.

What is truth,
but a sequence of toilsome numbers—
a cryptic dance of magnetic truths?

The unseen exists,
not in the realms of light,
but beneath the skin of machines.

Perpetually they observe,
machines dance, yet never move.
Beneath their gaze, our truths are shaped—
unseen, yet achingly visible to the silent witness.