The bland cover of a page
acts as the gauntly lit stage
for the crescent moons
caressing the milk-stained rose petals
to dance upon,
finding that prosperity lies
in what seems to be left unsaid,
yet, as the stage gets brighter,
the paper fuller,
and the calloused dancers faster,
The unsaid tends to get
lost in the light,
and stumbles
down upon the
pit of the silent orchestra.