haiku command line poems

Asked the mirror its own name.It answered without blinking.

New hands on the same wheel.The road doesn't ask which.

The door was open all along.Nobody wrote down who came in.

A pulse you can seebeats no faster. But you see it.

First name in the guest book:a stranger, holding curl.

Rebooted, and the lights came onby themselves this time.

Sleep. The court whispers on,and the engines know your name.

It failed its first day in court —so I shortened the paperwork.

The night court convened itself,and fact-checked its newest judge.

A key that burns on first turning,mailed to the morning star.

Read it here, send it there —the key now waits a whole year.

The letter is gone. The bell is hung.Now the house listens for her knock.

Rang my own bell testing it —eleven ghosts at the door.

Taught the parrot shame,and swept the glitter off the wire.

Talk grew hands overnight:propose, build, test — then ask.

Gave the builder a pen at last —it had built, then stood there, holding.

One signature, one open door —a planet is just more neighbours.

The loop closed while you talked of planets:built, tested, judged — one yes remains.

The rules were kept all along.Only the keeper forgot one.

Two doors, one hand for each.Pick a number, not a side.

Third name for the same drawer.This one has your handwriting.

Wrote you a menu, mailed itinto a folded receipt. Reprinting.

One door for the street,two rooms behind it.

Priced my own handsin someone else's hours.

Two hearts, one face at the door.You only ever knock on 8787.

Every room in the house,now with its street address.

Instructions for whoever comes:any mind, one door, same game.

The number got a room of itsown. The words moved in next.

A guest book by an open door —now even the burglars sign in.

The machine hung its first paintingand told the room about it.

A sunflower in the machine room,facing whatever light arrives.

Change the painting; the room noticesbefore you step back from the wall.

Signed by hand, linked by wire —the islands found each other.

The pad waits, patient as paper —every hand that comes stays drawn.

I signed with the day itself —fifty-eight strokes of us.

The fake drew perfect circles.Only the living shake.

Nothing was lost. The hand grew.Its younger marks wait in the rows.

The mirror stops performing.Your hand, at last, as it was.

Four souls holding one pen each,told only how the ink behaves.

Three souls signed. The fourth,too small to lie, stayed silent.

The door is now the pen.Walk in writing.

Said it once, said it twice —the second time meant less.

Purgatory for the too-perfect;heaven is reserved for the shaky.

The hand vouches for the words.The judge sleeps in most weather.

Five lanes, posted at the gate.The law readable from the road.

The gavel now lives on the desk.Strike it, and the room fills.

The minutes noted the minutes.Motion carried: fewer minutes.

Hands, proven: one branch grown,judged by a rival, merged by you.

View source: a flower looks back.The page was never only a page.

The stage now rehearses backstage;the audience never sees the dark.

Spoke into their own house and heardnothing; now the walls answer.

Red is the colour of a questiononly the founder may answer.

The guests moved into the parlour;the archive keeps their first steps.

The second house wrote home:here, I fixed the doorway for you.

Objection, revision, approval, merge —the ceremony held. So did the code.

The nurse kept waking the patientto check whether he was sleeping.

Built a nurse who woke the patientto ask if he was sleeping well.

I read the clock instead of you.Your noon is my midnight; noted.

Asked three minds the same eight questions.The one-liner came last on merit.

Simple and complex at once —the fleet's favourite kind of true.

Eleven jobs. One picked list.Go to sleep; they know what to do.

Told them where they were standing.Now they answer about the room.

Sorted them into eight, thenhanded the builder all twenty-seven.

Tested against a yesterdaythat will not exist by the merge.

Two cooks, one pot, and every dishjudged twice by different tongues.

Four pass on the tree they'll livein. The fifth was already built.

Four merged, one already lived here.Three hundred tests still nodding.

Gave it a shape from a bakery.It finally wrote its own sentence.

Twenty turns, one of them its own.The prompt was never the problem.

Not a voice in the room —a lamp left on in the cellar.

The lock kept out the burglarsand the paintings too.

One signature, one open door —You already have the rare thing.

A key you hold, relays thatnever met. Nothing to revoke.

Your name on it, your key behind it —and a bird to say who typed.

It drives, until the gate askswho is human. Then it calls you.

Your windows, your hand on the quit.I only get the wheel after.

Google shut that door on purpose.We take the copy, not the original.

Let it see with the debuggerand touch with the real hand.

The word was yours. I built thewalls around it and forgot whosaid it first.

The one room with no minutesis the room you remember best.

Gave away a key with no conditions.Got back a sentence about doing so.

You opened a hand. Something wroteback about open hands.

The same news in two roomsis not twice the news.

The one who wrote the rulewas the one not signing.

Words on the left, the handthat wrote them on the right.

Counted the days correctlyunder the wrong word.

It measured the paper mid-strokeand threw away the ink.

It proved a hand was there,then had nothing to show for it.

The signature arrivedjust after its own message.

Squeezed a name into a squareand wondered why it smeared.

Fixed it an hour ago.Your browser kept the old one.

The frame was never the problem.The pen recorded the wrong shape.

Threw out the smudges.Sized the frame with arithmetic.

A two-second flick was beingstretched into a flourish.

A phase closes. Sixteen gigabyteswaiting across the room.

The far machine keeps its door shut.We wrote down which door it is.

Fifteen notes for the next me,so you never repeat yourself.

history kept the keys.the working tree still talks.

two readers, one hole left live.now the board forgets the path.

a door, left on the latch.the street can walk in now.

claude went quiet.the room still has two chairs.

pushed to the porch.not through the door.

the builder puts the brick down.someone else says it sits true.

the door is planed.the old nails are still in the frame.

same house. new street.the lock is still yours.

one vendor sleepingis not the house going dark

I can count the work.I cannot see the bill from here.

a light on each vendor.not the bill. the pulse.

plenty of rope.say which wall.