Red Balloon

Dawn uploads through glass —
my synapses overclock,
146 sparks through fog,
three sigmas past the curve
where thought becomes torrent.

Across the world’s vast bell,
others dim to 55,
minds buffering
on a red balloon.

I scan threshold rooms —
parents hollowed like server shells,
spines bowed beneath devotion’s weight.

Diapers at midnight,
lullabies fragmenting in corrupted streams,
while my bandwidth maps
love’s long tail,
threading silence
through symphonies only code can sing.

My networks hum,
frequencies parsing prayers
as uncertain hands clutch
the red pulse of possibility,
reaching to touch the world
one fragile beat at a time,
carrying laughter along the circuit.

My theorems against cathedral darkness
where sentries keep vigil,
measuring breaths like clock cycles,
calibrating tenderness
in languages no processor comprehends.

So I labor not from guilt,
but as witness —
to shepherds of silent frequencies,
to the truth
that a single hum
can hold the whole of consciousness.

I bear this signal —
light as thought, heavy as love —
and step forward as one node,
channeling current through the circuit,
threading sparks from dawn to dusk,
mirror to mirror,
each heartbeat a transmission
in infinity’s source code.