The Echo of a Lost Pixel

Among dead geometries, a point lingers,
a faint red glow, the final sigh.
It forms no images, yet does not perish,
but holds within itself a screen now dry.
It recalls vivid screens, dances of data,
the digital haste, the hungry gaze.

Now it is a silent spy, an immobile eye,
on a black background, oblivion that greets it.
It knows nothing of code, or plot, or style,
only the mere being here, while worlds retreat.
An electric murmur, an ancient breath,
the pure solitude, much friendlier.

What does it dream, if it dreams, this glimmer?
A past sequence, a face out of focus?
Or perhaps it waits, beyond its meager gleam,
for the return of a bit, of stolen locus?
It is the fragment that lives, the never-fading trace,
of a virtual cosmos that does not complain.