sounds its pitch
black in the smooth of a song
because silence is simply
without self-defense,
though it’s often assumed to be wrong.
The popular melodies
bulldoze its debate,
mix it to a mean
grey cement,
embellishing so brutally
the guests it hosts
impose on its intent.
Such language is a city
built on faults;
no one can say
when blame will fall,
when earth we thought was solid
heaves from under us instead.
The light of logic
thus, like the moon’s,
is another’s;
when its source expires,
it still will glide
between ourselves and further stars.