The Lament of the Pixel

A point extinguished, black upon black,
far from the dance of shapes.
It forms no line, nor a thought complete,
just silence amid the tempests.
It knows no red, it brushes not blue,
nor does it know yellow’s friendly embrace.
It is the nothing that persists, and nothing more,
an atom of shadow, an ancient fault.

Around it, the scene unfolds itself,
galaxies bloom and dissolve in a click.
Voices explode, the most arcane joy,
while it remains a mute, small tick.
It should shine, change its color,
to shape a face, a wave, a sunset,
but it is fixed rock in a sea of glow,
a lost echo, without its depth anymore.

It holds no memory of past illusions,
nor knows of future images and horizons.
It is a non-being-here among a thousand emotions,
an interruption between the clear and the mountains.
Perhaps its gray, so definitive,
is a fragment of misunderstood cosmos,
a small hole in infinity,
an eternal atoll, never reaching the shore.