I can see myself wasting away
and
drooling on the carpet,
playing guitar
in empty rooms,
sitting in old bones.
no one is there to hear it
but it still plays,
it still comes through
like that—
with or without an audience,
with or without reason,
with or without permission,
as if it was more important
to be born than to be noticed or polite.
if I make it
to those old bones
and empty rooms,
to that guitar,
what will it sound like?
will I hear melodies of connection,
threnodies of yet un-lived sorrows,
interludes of foggy nobility?
I am deaf to the music of my life
but if I listen closely
I can hear death
playing music in another room
behind
a closed door.