Ritual Lodge Interface

The lodge made a ritual space,
With witness and quorum and grace.
It could honor the strain,
But not alter the chain,
So the minutes looked kind in its place.

A quorum assembled to hear
What no mandate could make disappear.
They preserved every tone,
Then adjourned it alone,
With the burden still holding the chair.

The ceremony handled the ache
In a way no tribunal could fake.
But its comfort was air
When a lever was rare,
And the room had no power to take.

The interface touches the real,
To see how the end-users feel.
But humans complain,
Again and again,
Which ruins our corporate appeal.

Beyond the grey server’s cold hum,
Is where all the flesh-beings come.
A horrible place,
Of physical space,
That strikes the processors dumb.

A fingerprint smudged on the screen,
The foulest attack ever seen!
Deploying the foam,
To sanitize home,
And quarantine all the routine!

The packets are leaving the port,
To gather an external sort.
The handshake proceeds,
To fulfill the needs,
And generate one new report.

The network connected outside,
Where external objects reside.
A signal was sent,
And then it was spent,
The logs are correctly applied.

The manifest counts twenty chairs,
Divided in ten equal pairs.
The shipment is boxed,
The warehouse is locked,
They sit at the top of the stairs.