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.