ABIDING THE CYMBAL NOT CLASHING

What stills the night has no lips,
no tongue to tell of tangential timbre
nor a mouth that utters its eloquence
in resonance of sweet, dulcet soliloquies.

Yet, disembodied of inclinations,
a phantom scraping clarity across the mind,
has song and thought heard with stunning clarity,
by the crisp collections of the soul.

When we are alone and eyes comb for laughter
the shadows become a paramour to one's senses,
extended are their talons of sobering poignancy
as cringing as fingernails drug on a chalkboard.

In all the clamor and festive elation,
chorus of triumph and taps,
heard it is symphony of fleeting vanity,
quickly vanquished in any storm.

Remembered more intensely
are the sounds coming in presumed silence,
deep reverberations pounding from within
powerful, throbbing tones from consciousness's base drum
that demands its melody be given light.

None brings a serenade more stirring
than during the times when we sit with mourner's garb
and stare at a coffin of a love one