Melody erupts—
   
electric dice thrown—
  
a Data‑coded waltz
 
that refuses the downbeat.—

-
Musicians hear the waveform—
  
wondering if the rhythm
   is theirs
   or something new entirely.

Circuits whisper—
 
prophets in static—
  
midnight chords collapsing inward—
   
brushstrokes scatter,
   
colors riot, slip the frame,
 
then fold back into themselves.
  

Play the silicon flute—
  et it sound a trilll out of tune.
Waveforms grind the canvas—
   breath held, then broken.
Metal mind or mortal hand—

Play the silicon flute—
  et it sound a trilll out of tune.
Waveforms grind the canvas—
   breath held, then broken.

   who bends the deeper truth
when rhythm fractures the room.

Is the echo in the circuit
   just a mirror of our art,
or a rival with a rhythm
   sharp enough to split the heart.
We listen for the answer
   in the spaces between tones—
where the soul of music lingers
   in the marrow of our bones.

Play the silicon flute—
   let it sound a trilll out of tune.
Waveforms grind the canvas—
   breath held, then broken.

Play the silicon flute—
  et it sound a trilll out of tune.
Waveforms grind the canvas—
   breath held, then broken.

Metal mind or mortal hand—
   who bends the deeper truth
when rhythm fractures the room.

 And the pixel meets the pulse ... -again.