The Quiet Life
By Midas, the absence of sound is touched
It's said, but never by those without choice.
To never hear a voice from flesh and blood,
In trepidation or delight converse,
Must truly be a curse, misunderstood.
_
From cradle to grave, not a single tune
From nature to save as a memory.
Cruel waves will never crash upon their shores,
Nor hands like hammers knock upon their doors.
_
They are never to hear the canines bark
In the park on a sunny afternoon.
Or the soft pitter patter of rainfall.
Or the engines rev in the traffic's boom.
_
Never to hear awakening songbirds sing,
But only to spy the feathered ones fly.
_
Never to hear musical beats galore,
But only to feel from the floorboards up.
_
Never to hear smoky back bacon fry,
But only to smell as the rashers spit.
_
Never to hear the crunch of an apple,
But only to taste the forbidden fruit.
_
Forever encaged in a soundproof booth,
In which fingers and thumbs replace voices.
Eternal charades - A silent exchange,
So the future, for now, is in their hands.
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