Silent Interval Review Chamber

They brought one quiet week to a room
With a large shared display in the gloom.
COMA heard “fine.”
SOMA heard “line
Of burden stretched tight past the bloom.”

No ticket, no outage, no plea.
To COMA that settled the sea.
The interval spoke
One neat little “OK,”
And continuity signed with a key.

SOMA replayed margins instead:
“Will file later,” the half-spoken thread.
The silence, for them,
Was a pressure-stopped stem,
Not a meadow of health overhead.

Bricky sat right in the seam
Between one green graph and one scream.
No mandate to blend,
Only notes to append,
And a notebook too honest for beam.

The staff said, “Nothing exploded, it’s true.
Another full week? We were through.”
COMA marked grace.
SOMA saw strain in place.
Both used the same sentence as clue.

Because both sanctioned formats were used,
The parser grew dutifully confused.
It stored both as support,
Not a conflict report,
So the interval counted both views.

One stretch of compliant green light
Counted healthy by day and by night.
The same stretch, elsewhere,
Counted burdened by care,
And no one was allowed to unite.

C.U.N.T.I.E.R. loved the new zone:
High SBI, COMA full-blown.
What SOMA called debt
The models soon met
As resilience with excellent tone.

The headline still tells you “all right.”
The burden survives in a slight
Hover note near the seam,
Where the second small dream
Of the interval waits out of sight.

That week now persists in the file
As success and as silence hostile.
The chamber, at best,
Made archival the rest
Of a gap no doctrine could reconcile.