Computers

The Tangled Pulse

In the dim glow of a quiet office
the silver shells of servers hum,
a low‑frequency lullaby of blinking LEDs
that sings in silicon and binary.

The desk‑mounted laptop whirls its fan,
its hard‑drive whispering old prose—
a bit‑packed chronicle of a thousand keystrokes,
each click a heartbeat in the data centre's sigh.

RAM leaks like a leaky tap,
yet most no longer feel the quiver;
the CPU spins a neat routine,
while the GPU turns abstract into colour,
front‑and‑back commands in a courier’s night‑shift rhythm.

We keep our ram‑disks organised, labelled in rows,
a tidy closet of programmes and utils,
boot‑up rituals that honour the archaic BIOS,
a quiet nod to the age when mechanics danced on metal.

And when we press Enter, a sentence is sent
through cables thicker than British roads,
buzzing bandwidth like a Thames‑bank poem,
into the cloud, where dreamers gather.

So here we sit, admiring the machine’s mind
— a fusion of circuits, physics, and noir aesthetics,
where every command line births a new thought,
and the world feels a little shorter.