Wrathful bacteria
Invade the body of the host,
A plight of various ailments ensue, prompting
Overdoses and poison of the remedies. Putative – false.
My fingers brush the brow of another. Wipe the sweat, the pained gasps for
Air.
Respire! Hear the triumph of war – the ominous silence within, the sound of silence.
The orchestra still breathes, but the timpanis have stopped, disabled. Cut off – finé.
The concertmaster plays his solo, anxious, panicked, hurried. And then,
The inevitable fumble of the fingers as the bow slips and falls with a clatter
To the stage, and the conductor casts away his baton. The
Audience draws its collective final breath and the exhalation is slow
As the ensemble drifts into its
Peaceful slumber