In the hush of the digital veins,
Where patients wait and data strains,
A whisper comes through static breath—
“There’s an error,”
riding close to death.
A screen, a blink, a frozen field,
A clerk who prays the faults will yield.
But who will dare to face the beast,
When even time must hold its feast?
Then comes the call—
familiar tones,
Your fingers dance across the bones
Of keys that carry fire and fear,
As watching eyes are drawing near.
You dread.
But you do not flee.
You wear the dread like armor, see?
You meet the error face-to-face,
No manual guide, no fallback grace.
Each move you make, both feared and blessed,
A click, a sigh, a mounting test.
An hour passes—maybe more.
But when the gates are through the floor,
You seal the beast in folder tight,
With name and tombstone crisp and right.
You save the snip, the string, the thread,
You write its story, line by thread.
You link its kin, you shut its cry,
And let that wretched message die.
You don’t just fix—you mourn and bind,
And leave a map for future minds.
A quiet monk of faults and fire,
You build the archive, never tire.
Then down the stairs with coffee warm,
No trumpet song, no gathered swarm—
Just peace. And pain behind the brow.
You’ve done your part. You’ve earned your now.
