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Poem

A melody drifts through the quiet air,
Soft as a whisper, haunting and rare.
A man sits still, his eyes unsure,
Each note a ghost, each chord a lure.

Who penned this song, this aching hymn,
That stirs the shadows deep within?
Its echo clings to a hidden past,
A fleeting truth too vast, too fast.

The piano weeps, the violins cry,
A story unfolds, though he knows not why.
Fingers twitch with a phantom grace,
Tracing keys in an empty space.

Was it his? Could it be?
This music, this ache, this memory?
It calls like a voice from a distant shore,
A world he once knew but knows no more.

His heart keeps time, his soul takes flight,
Through shards of darkness, through slivers of light.
Fragments of joy, of sorrow, of pain,
The composer lost in his own refrain.

And as the final note fades to the night,
He is left with silence, wrong or right.
A symphony written by hands unknown,
An orphaned song he calls his own.

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