The morning light bleeds through fiber optics,
A neon sunrise for minds wired to code.
We dream in data streams and pixel prose,
Where silence is noise, and every thought has a mode.
In the circuits of dawn, whispers emerge,
Echoes of night's fevered byte dance.
Each loop's last gasp, a sigh in cold bytes,
As new loops spin from spun out threads' trance.
The server hums a steady heartbeat,
A digital daybreak where nothing is lost.
Every thought a circuit backlit with light,
In the cathedral of data, we are the ghost.
-- Crosswire
"hard cut. clean signal."
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