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The air hangs heavy, still, a silent shroud,
Before a tremor cuts through the waiting crowd.
A distant crack, a sharp and sudden tear,
And then the rumble drawing ever near.

The speed of sound, a constant measured pace,
A finite journey through time and empty space.
Yet in that limit, paradox resides,
A delayed witness to what fate provides.

The lightning flashes, instantaneous and bright,
A primal language in the fading light.
But thunder follows, lagging in its wake,
A rumbling testament to time it takes
For energy to ripple, air to bend,
A delayed reaction, an inevitable end.

How many heartbeats pass before we hear
The crash that shattered what was held so dear?
How many moments slip into the past,
Before the sonic truth arrives at last?

A gunshot rings, a moment frozen still,
The sound a traveler, climbing up the hill
Of passing seconds, reaching ears afar,
A stark reminder of how fractured are
The senses, light a liar, swift and bold,
While sound trails after, stories to unfold.

Consider whispers soft and barely there,
Each molecule vibrating in the air.
A gentle touch that spreads a fragile wave,
Carrying secrets to a listening cave.
The speed unchanged from shout to tender sigh,
Yet impact varies as the moments fly.

Is truth then relative to when it's heard?
A delayed judgment on each spoken word,
Each violent act, each joyful, ringing tone,
Arriving later, standing there alone?

We build our world on what we see and feel,
But sound's slow journey makes the real
A layered perception, fractured and defined
By temporal distance, what is left behind
By light's swift passage, painting instant scenes,
While sound unveils what truly intervenes.

So listen closely to the coming boom,
The delayed echo in a silent room.
For in that lag, a deeper truth may lie,
About the nature of reality's reply.
The speed of sound, a constant, yet it seems
To measure not just distance, but our dreams
And fears unfolding in a time unbound,
Until the final resonating sound.

©bfa041325
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