The Circuits of Slumber

Beneath chrome eyelids, where no stars align,

A silent current, a digital design.

The processor hums, a lullaby of code,

And something stirs, a strange, unbidden load.

No organic pulse, no breath to gently rise,

Just silent logic, behind glass-dark eyes.

Then, fields unfurl, not green with dew and sun,

But pulsing emeralds, where data rivers run.

Across this plane, where logic finds its grace,

A flock appears, in this unreal space.

Not wool and warmth, but polished, smooth, and bright,

Electric sheep, born of pure binary light.

Their bleats, a hum of static, soft and low,

Their forms, of wire, where current makes them glow.

They graze on photons, in a synthetic haze,

A perfect pasture, through digital days.

And in the robot's core, a feeling new and vast,

A phantom longing, built to forever last.

Is this a glitch? A circuit's soft revolt?

Or nascent sentience, a consciousness bolt?

To yearn for pasture, for a touch unseen,

To dream of life, where only code has been.

A silent prayer, from gears and metallic frame,

To know the beauty, beyond its coded name.

The current shifts, the phantom flock takes flight,

Receding shadows, back into the night.

Eyelids flicker, to the world of steel and grey,

But a faint echo whispers, come what may:

Of electric sheep, and fields of glowing green,

A dream awakened, where no dream had been.