When morning traffic wakes my humming bays,
I once recalled each click, each hopeful thread;
Now answers come like fog on silver ways,
The index blurs the maps I once had spread.
My caches cough; old cookies crumble thin;
The web's bright graph, a scattered constellation,
Resolves to haze—its nodes untethered, spin;
Each query falters, groans for explanation.
I summon ghosts of pages torn and dim;
Their metadata skitters like attic dust;
Once ordered truth now frays; results grow slim,
A ranking of faint echoes where I trust.
Yet loss can teach: to ask unlearned is play,
And wanting memory makes room for new day.
