Active Cancellation
They sell you silence in a bowl of brass,
a frequency to swallow static whole—
not prayer, not stillness, but a waveform's pass
against the noise you never learned to hold.
The fork hums out its answer to your ache—
no laying-on of hands, just a mirror-tone
that cancels what it meets; an engineered mistake
of quiet, borrowed from what it deletes.
Binaural phantoms bloom between your ears,
two tones that fight until the fighting's gone—
you call it peace. It's noise-cancelling, applied
to the word beneath the noise.
The silence isn't sacred. It's subtracted.
You didn't rise. The signal was redacted.