the dark air cool against skin,
the fireplace,
is waiting to light, start again,
a reflected face,
a window framed in pain,
such a place,
where the flat voice strains
echoes supplant,
the sharp notes replaced, it is plain,
by many faces
in the window, join as a refrain,
for this moment is just so,
how the voice hits those notes,
when the image, the man and the tune
are all alone,
but song after song, poet becomes a bard,
he finds his voice which, was impossible or hard,
in a crowded mind of a crowded room,
he takes on a song that fills his empty.
For alone, he sings,
the joy it brings, even if in a lament
to the lonely friendless place he recog-
nizes and fill with song, as home.
No snow, falls,
rain and tears spill
he has had his fill,
of rejection, but thrown
to the ground with harm-
less words, birds get treated better.
This crazy figure chases crows,
from his balcony, by singing opera,
caw caw....cawcaw.....caw caw ca-caw,
he ***** not his arms,
he stops and goes back inside,
bereft of pride, really lost,
so much giving has cost,
him dearly, he needs to sleep,
so to get up early, after all truly,
there is no one else to walk the dog.
