Midnight Gestalt

Night of the concepts
Sum of parts so frustrated
They bloom into more

A midnight question:
Could there be no end to this?
P=NP?

Is less more sometimes?
(Interrupt me with a kiss
When you've had enough)

When you've had your fill
May we find the Christmas Lights
Shine bright on their own

That the guitar played
Echoes through halls and pockets
As does piano

An orchestra formed
Where one thought silence would bloom
Into one new thing

In one sense, correct
But "thing" indefinable
By any known scope

For nothing was gained
Nothing was lost all the same
And everything changed

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