All aboard

one

a few unsung words
pile within.
an orchestra grows,
over oxygenated by silence.
the deafening tuba
rips out a tune
that nobody hears.
as the open space waits
the empty theatre is
full of uninvited guests.
faces tilted,
impatiently focused on
other scores
written by other
minds
their eyes wonder across
other landscapes;
each one invisible to the
other
they walk together
unknowingly holding
hands
through parallel worlds
that may never
knowingly
touch.
our breaths held tight
in isolation
in protection.
an airless theatrette
with painted blue ceiling
with grass coloured seats.
if any one was there,
they too would wonder
-brown paper bag muffling their
words-
What is this self-sanctioned silence?

two

truth
is,
how much we do care
in
that
which our ministrations
impacts on so little?
worlds may world their thoughts
around us,
our little parched hooves may
be lead straight to the water.
we search for meaning
we seek in obscure places
for a path to a better place.
but,
looking at this oasis,
this non-mirage in the (very) desert,
we turn our feverish muzzles away
in disdain:
‘What good is water?’
we cry.
then, turning to the worlding world,
another cry tumbles forth.
this time in silence:
‘Why cloud my (crowded) life
with your tales of woe?’
unwittingly,
unwillingly,
against it.

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