the resin on my finger tips
can't even listen to the sounds they produce,
but they do their job anyway,
even with joy,
because it is what it is.

the violin sounds,
and the cello rings the voice
and it is almost a mix of something
producing a grandeur diagnosis of dreams
but i can't stop listening
to the space between,
the melodies that don't exist
that my soul fills in the gaps with,
because some composer was smart enough
to not say everything,
and let it exist as it is.

this seat,
this auditorium:
they all melt away,
because nothing finite is big enough
to hold this emptiness.
That's what the silence is after the final note,
and it is more deafening than any instrument.

08/15/2010

Posted on 08/16/2010
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