Fingers fall down the path of tiptoed keys.
The despondent dulcet sound leaves a ring in a dresser.
Finds a man broken by time, by life.
Wandering dew damp sidewalks
chasing foggy breath.
Phantom arms around his shoulders.
Not dragging, not weighing.
Carrying. Warming.
He wonders what is real.
The wet rock underfoot,
or the tragic but,
somehow
welcome
yearning in his heart.
What is it to be real anyway?
We hurt, we laugh, we sing, we cry
If a deaf man falls in the dark,
and no one is around...
Phenomenon need no observer.
Such is the quiet magnificence of love.
