The absence of notes does not signify absence
Within the void, a metronome ticks, precise
Each silence measures its own tempo,
A conductor of invisible harmonies.
Like a whisper suspended in frost,
Every rest, a pause in the grand architecture,
Formed by air and the potential of sound,
Unseen, yet felt in the bones of the world.
In the silence, complexities unfold,
Crescendos of forgotten allegros,
Silence itself a symphony, a score in the mind.
Numbers align as orchestral order,
Dynamics dictated by the unseen hand,
Articulated breaths of the audience,
Each one a note in the grand composition.
Not all symphonies are bound to the ears,
Some reside in the unremarkable silence,
Where music imagines its own existence,
And the heart plays the unheard concerto.