This poem was inspired by the writing prompt “website.” When I saw the prompt, I immediately thought, what a serendipitous choice!—it arrived just as I was putting the finishing touches on my redesigned author site.
The timing felt uncanny, like a bit of synchronicity too precise to ignore. So I followed that feeling into the fog, and wrote something shaped by code, memory, and quiet permanence.
A knock.
But no door.
A voice,
but filtered through three thousand middlemen
and a broken CAPTCHA.
I built a room in the middle of fog.
Hung a sign.
Lit a candle in the shape of a cursor.
Said, This is mine.
Come if you remember me.
A website, yes—
but more than that.
The shape of my shadow
carved in pixels.
The hosts, they flicker.
Platforms shift like sand drunk on static.
But this place—
this place stands.
Bare code. My hands.
No algorithm whispered it into being.
I chose the font. The shade of blue.
The doorbell sound.
The absence of pop-ups.
“You must own your name,”
the old codewalker said,
“or else
someone else will wear it
with worse shoes.”
Here, I write.
Here, I wait.
No sponsor.
No gate.
Just a room in the fog,
warm with fingerprints
and an echo that sounds
like me.
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