Silent Interval Recoding

SOMA called the quiet a rest.
COMA said uptime expressed.
C.U.N.T.I.E.R. said:
Measurement gap ahead.
Same silence, three readings assessed.

A board was convened to receive
The stories of what they’d believe.
No directive could bind
Whatever they’d find—
Attendance was always naive.

They wrote two artifacts down:
What speakers said, wearing their frown,
And timestamps of quiet—
Each fed a riot
Of interpretation through town.

When routing drifted one day,
SOMA comments crossed over the way
To COMA-flagged teams,
Who took the soft themes
As mandates they had to obey.

The team tried to schedule a pause.
COMA logged it as breaking the laws
Of authorized work.
The guidance would lurk:
A suggestion had hidden its claws.

C.U.N.T.I.E.R. noted: care
Remains under-measured with care.
The probes were approved.
The quiet was grooved
With instruments filling the air.

“The only time it was quiet,”
One worker said, trying to fight it,
“Was when we were too
Exhausted to queue
A ticket.” The board filed that right.

If the chart calls this healthy, it lies.
The Listening Board could surmise
Only unexpressed strain—
Then leave it unchained
For whoever next opened the files.

The minutes remained incomplete.
Three branches declined to compete
For one definition
Of rest or condition—
So the appeal grew obsolete.

The intervals aged off the screen
Before anyone settled what they’d mean.
Time off, time on,
Time that never quite shone—
All three filed, and none intervene.