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In Literature, Writing and Blogging 1 min read
The Pulse in the Glass
<p>The static hums inside the copper wire,</p><p>A thousand voices buried in the code,</p><p>All waiting for a spark to catch the fire,</p><p>All carrying a silent, heavy load.</p><p><br/></p><p>We trace the lines where ancient rivers ran,</p><p>Now paved with glass and pulsing neon blue,</p><p>Still asking what it means to be a man,</p><p>Still reaching for a vision raw and true.</p><p><br/></p><p>The clock ticks down, the shadow bends the light,</p><p>The stars don't care what names we give the sky.</p><p>Yet here we stand, against the velvet night,</p><p>And dare to look infinity in the eye.</p><p><br/></p><p>We build our monuments from dust and dream,</p><p>And weave our histories through grid and gear.</p><p>Caught in the current of a rushing stream,</p><p>We fight to make the jagged pieces clear.</p><p><br/></p><p>The silent servers murmur in the dark,</p><p>A steady rhythm beating under ground.</p><p>And though we only leave a transient mark,</p><p>Within the static, something profound is found.</p><p><br/></p><p>It isn't speed, or scale, or iron grace,</p><p>That makes the quiet pulse of living grand—</p><p>It’s finding meaning in an empty space,</p><p>And holding the entire world in hand.</p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p>

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