Splendor: a poem

Staff Writer

That old drum is fully shielded by the stands;
the dust dormant on its top
may outlast even its drummer.
The conductor wields his stick in the air
as the drum stays still and mute.
The audience sets no expectations
for things that are invisible,
but zero expectations give way to surprise
when the drum’s roar comes out.
The mallet that pounds its surface –
it is the stone, thrown into a silent lake, that ripples the medium;
and the sound waves sway everything they touch
to match their own rhythm.
There the power of the old drum lies.
Unseen, it does not lead,
yet it still shakes all of
those faint but glowing hearts.

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