221. The Sky Songstress

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?