MEGAN THRONE | A Muted Medley

Dainty, frosted quarters, eighths, sixteenths,

drift to the ground. Some stay clumped together—

arpeggios, chords— while others remain

distinct: staccatos, fermatas, the occasional sforzando.

They are eerily silent, free from the grip

of dynamics that once dictated their existence.

The faded melodies, drained of their rich, inky notation,

cling to each other as they collect upon the earth.

These pale shadows of notes gather within

the atmosphere; each moment a tune is released by

instrument or voice, a transparent layer of ink

dissipates from its sheet of music, leaving behind

its onyx exterior and curling in on itself

as it trembles and waits with the others.

They accumulate and begin to flit downward

just as we have become devoid of inspiration.

Though tiny and tasteless, they replenish the

desire to harmonize, to resonate; they

allow for musical paths not yet trodden

to be explored with fresh footprints.

Some of us instinctively realize the infinite

potential of the ghostly notes taking shape

during those most frigid days. We

open their mouths and stick out their tongues.

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