The Composer

by Trevor Worthey

A man moves through
The crowd, tormented
That he holds something so great
And cannot shed what he carries.

Forever the gentleman
His pushes are gentle
His shoves polite.

He looks like just another
Artist in this town…

He glances to a terrace;
The building is private.
He pushes to a dark alley.
There, a shooting is going on.

Disturbed, the lamp holders
And iron window-bars
Glare at him
And pierce his psyche.
His countenance darkens.

The crowd begins
To disrespect—
He agitates the masses,
And is caught in a torrent.

The waves toss him
Up against a door.
His hand is jammed
Behind him.
It desperately,
Inadvertently catches
A free-latched knob
And in, he is thrown—
The heavy door swings shut.

Outside, the currents rumble on, but
The din is subdued
By thick walls
And windows shattered.
A vacuum, letting,
Allowing the noise
But not permitting
That intolerable tumble
Of society.

And the Composer, with gratuity, gravity,
Raises his arms
To direct the indiscernible orchestra
Of the human soul.

Out of this rushed quiet
And from these noiseless hands
Emerges a melodious,
Mystical ode
To silence.



 

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