His life is stacked in boxes
in rooms where no one lives,
seemingly waiting for a reason....
while the bits and pieces
necessary to perform
lay scattered about.
His breath,
caught between then and now,
between why and how,
reaches for notes
to an unwritten song.
As I dance to music he can't even hear.
It pours from empty boxes....
from books on shelves,
from pictures hung
and curtains flung...
open to the light.
It spills from empty boxes
and moves to the beat of an open heart....
and now,
to the most beautiful sheet music
anyone has ever shown me.
Hum as I might, I can't write
the song he was given to sing.
It isn't mine...
and it sure isn't me!
So it waits, stacked in boxes,
in rooms where no one lives,
on shelves waiting to be filled.
In pictures hung...
and curtains flung...
open to the light.
