To the unrecognised NOM, some lines of empathy

In recognition of the lowly NOM

Oh Notes of Minutes, thou art a strange thing

Words trapped within tables,

Confined within boundaries

Imprisoned.

Were I to set you free,

Would you dance with metaphor and imagery?

Would you tell of rousing debates and vigorous arguments?

Would you spill all your secrets?

Alas.

I cannot set you free,

Oh words that I have loved so well.

This person said, that person said.

I know.

They really exclaimed, proclaimed, declared while banging their fists on the table, while waving a red flag to signal the dawn of a brand new age!

But you must keep our secret, my dears

And stay within the safe confines

Hush now, and settle down

Back in your tables and lines.

For you are just…

notes.

But then you say,

That notes on a different page direct melodies sublime!

They skip and hop and run around

And keep musicians’ time!

Notes between friends are treasures to keep

For years and years to come

In daring espionage, in stealthy plans,

And inspirational moments,

Notes were around!

I pat you gently on

The word processor that you still reside

(and which I must return to soon, after this quick aside)

But you are just notes of minutes, I say,

The watchmen of the seconds that have gone by

The passive bystanders, the unknowing onlookers

The ones who knit a stitch each time the guillotine’s blade falls

You have no past glories, no future aspirations.

You’re just the present,

Or a lowly sentinel of the present, really.

Guarding

Plainly, succinctly and to the point.

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