He played the same chords
Repeatedly, and talked.
He didn't really need me there,
He was talking to himself more than
To anyone else, but
I think my listening ears helped,
Somewhat, at least.

As he talked, and rationalized
His fingers kept on playing,
Sometimes getting so loud,
I couldn't hear what he said,
And maybe he couldn't hear
What he said either and maybe
That was the point of it.

And as he played, the chords
Became a mantra, repetitive and calming,
It's this strangely, metaphorically resonant
Thing - as long as the music goes on,
So does life.