Silence

Some of the noise in this house is alone in its pursuit of being heard,
I think because the noise is easily frightened, and as such, drowns itself out
Some of the silence in this house is also alone
It could desire the flattery that noise brings
But instead becomes a prostitute of time,
Selling stretches of emptiness, seeming to never become or remain

I was once told of a place where a river of clouds caressed sugar beaches,
Where noise lived as melody, and silence as serenity,
In this story the two would dance in harmony creating a symphony,
Each savoring the opposite while using itself to propell the beauty of one another forward

Stories are simple.
Time is harsh.
And I am           .