The Beauty of Conflict

They served me nectar and poison,
in cups that looked alike,
I drank both, without a thought
and found both distasteful
They smiled at me, waiting for me to sing,
to pour out all that had seeped into my heart,
to see which of the two evils had won,
to resolve the conflict, and box up its beauty
in cups that looked alike
I spoke not a word, but returned the smile,
for I had drunk no more of any one than the other.
I overhear from the squabble, their cries in unison
I see in their hardened selves,
the winsomeness of my existence
Is nectar not an ally of poison?
Is silence not what envelopes music?