Sometimes, more often than not,
a poem slides beside me,
walks into the room,
places a hand on my shoulder,
and whispers its way to a page.
It travels to rooms in my heart,
built by those I love,
who dwell there all alone until..
..until its time to close and lock the door,
and slowly walk the stairs,
to somewhere else to cry.
A poem slides beside me,
and writes itself,
hand over hand it pours to the page,
and blurs my vision to right here,
right now,
and leads me where it does.
A song too sad to be sung
to another,
a song to be sung alone on a page,
a page of another’s devising.
Like the lives that are passing,
the pages turn,
added to another story,
on pages written long before.
A poem sits beside me,
and tells me a story
and places its hand in mine,
and sings its story softly,
the saddest song I know.
To those who I love,
To those who've left me,
To those who care.