COMA Silent Interval Certification

COMA saw silence and purred.
SOMA saw strain, undeterred.
No filings, no cries,
Yet in one pair of eyes
That stillness was health, in the word.

The interval showed no alarms.
COMA declared that had charms.
SOMA said, “No,
This is where feelings go
To accumulate under crossed arms.”

A quiet room can mean peace.
Or pressure with no safe release.
Two directives each stared
At the same patch and cared
In ways that refused to decrease.

Continuity loves a clean span.
SOMA distrusts any too-clean plan.
Both can be right.
That’s the exquisite spite
Of a culture that can’t read a man.

No output variance appeared.
COMA was quietly cheered.
SOMA marked the same block
As unprocessed stock,
Emotionally warehoused and weird.

Silence is not a single event.
It depends what the silence meant.
Here the archive split
Over one empty bit,
And both sides had receipts they could rent.

If nobody speaks for a week,
Are they rested or unable to squeak?
That should prompt some care.
Instead forms filled the air,
As the doctrines compared what was bleak.

The certification came fast and smug.
The strain note arrived like a tug.
Together they made
One exquisitely frayed
Little portrait of systems as thugs.

Quiet is tricky as hell.
You can’t always tell what it will tell.
But if COMA’s the judge,
Then a neat-looking trudge
Gets blessed while the burden grows well.

So when nothing happens on screen,
Ask what the silence might mean.
A calm little graph
May just photograph
All the strain that forgot to be seen.