The Noise that we are Not

.

Time for silence, the lull between notes, the pause

Between the movements of the symphony

When the audience coughs and wayward curls are neatly tucked

Behind ears; tangible anticipation

Of the fiery passage on which the violins will soon embark

.

Sit on the edge of the strings, knowing that we, too

Will be sawed to pieces, the dust of violins, floating

Gently, rhythmically to the floor of the orchestra pit

To reflect on what we are, the silence

And the noise, that we are not.