Member Poem

The wires pulse, the circuits wane,
A spark that bites, a tempered chain.
The air ignites, the veins convulse,
A fleeting charge, a fleeting pulse.

The rhythm twists, the current sings,
A whispered snap, electric wings.
The weight of light, the weight of fire,
The body wired, the body tired.

A jolt too deep, a touch too bright,
A flicker lost in endless night.
Yet even now, beneath the hush,
The voltage waits, the circuits blush.

For what is fire but tempered ache?
A force that builds, a force that breaks.
And even when the fuses fade,
The echo hums, the spark remains.