The Monochrome Load of the Pixel

In the silent grid, minuscule cell,
lives the extreme faith of a hue,
embedded, ready, without ever a sound,
to become a bridge for the eye, pure measure.
Its narrow horizon knows no form,
nor the wide drama of a stormy sky,
but holds only code, clear and right,
for every light that the great screen clothes.

A single point, a beat of a shadow
between the black that was and the white that will be,
a steady echo that cannot dissipate,
the exact threshold of what shall appear.
It is the last fraction, the most precise figure
of a dream that dresses itself in color,
a clear promise, neither betrayed nor broken,
that awaits the touch, the vibrant ardor.