It was not until
She came along
that algorithmic silence
was so hummable
She would sit
and tune the skies
while the tone deaf evenings
and pitch dark nights
rumbled on
The skies were Her swan song
The now-intolerably-altered song
still plays to
packed audiences -
the seasons,
the undiscerning yet devoted seasons
the unfashionably fanatical seasons
She fled
when they started re-writing her work
(the people who talk in inspired whispers
of things they knew little about
of things they could do little about
of things they cared little about)
She fled and now
She keeps to herself
while She walks through strange silent towns
to hide from taunts of unfinished songs
The winds,
which hoot and whistle in applause
to the off-key skies,
turn mute when they hear Her hum
and She wonders -
would She have felt less miserable,
if She were a song and not a songstress?
