Scrapers and Seers

Machines can scrape a million words,
stack them high in tidy herds,
file the echoes, track the trends,
but never catch what bends.

A slip of tongue, a twist of tone,
the hum beneath the spoken stone,
the rebel’s laugh, the knowing glance,
these blind the scraper’s dance.

So let them log, record, repeat,
I’ll still hear rhythm in your beat.
For cadence can’t be coded tight,
it lives in resonance, not in bytes.