The Symphony

(Played to Mozarts’s requiem)

My heart is a symphony—

a conductor of chaos,

my veins bellow a thrum of sorrow,

while my arteries swell with crescendos of joy.

Every note rises, yet eventually falls,

a harmony woven from life’s shifting walls.

But what if I crave a quiet refrain,

To turn from the thunder and hide from the rain?

How often I seek

to silence the strings,

mute the horns,

banish the timpani’s thunder,

demanding only the flutes play on?

In chasing only the pleasant notes,

we flatten the score,

strip the masterpiece

of its ache,

its triumph,

its soaring harmony.

Pain paints the shadow

where joy casts its light;

a melody without sorrow

is a bird without flight.

And so, I let the dissonance hum,

the violins cry,

the cellos ache,

and the drums of anger rage.

For what is a requiem

if not the beauty of loss,

A hymn that cannot remain?

What is life

if not the highs and lows

played together as one chorus?

I do not fight

the minor chords,

nor cling to the major ones.

I let them flow—

the rising swells,

the crashing falls—

and in that surrender,

I hear the song

I was born to sing.

Because life is not a cheap tune,

an ensemble of endless high notes.

It is a masterpiece,

Where every tone, and the gaps in between them,

Compose the sound of being.

And as the last note fades,

I do not grieve its silence.

For in the stillness,

the music lingers,

echoing

in every breath I take.

Let the symphony play.