Inside the quiet folds of thought
Where silver signals once were caught,
A gentle river used to stream
Through corridors of light and dream.

A scaffold strong of tau once stood,
Holding highways firm and good,
Guiding whispers cell to cell
In patterns only minds can tell.

From APP’s familiar seam
A fragment split: a fleeting gleam,
Harmless born in daily art,
A byproduct of the beating heart.

But time, with patient, silent hand,
Let fragments linger, softly planned;
They clustered close in twilight’s deep,
Like dust that gathers while we sleep.

The night once washed the brain in tide,
Cleared the remnants set aside;
Yet slower flowed the cleansing stream,
And shadows thickened in the dream.

Highways bent and signals strayed,
Scaffolds loosened, lines decayed;
Not with thunder, not with flame —
But quiet loss without a name.

Still — somewhere warm beneath the fall,
An echo answers to a call;
A hand remembered, though not why,
A feeling none can nullify.

For even when the maps erase
And time dissolves the printed face,
A pulse remains, a subtle art —
The oldest memory: the heart.