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Poem

he doesn’t need to see the world
to understand it
the rhythm of the streets
tells him everything he needs to know

he feels the sun
not through his eyes
but in the warmth on his skin
the way the morning air shifts
when the day begins

his fingers dance across the keys
or the strings or the frets
like he’s tracing the face of something familiar
something he’s always known
music is his sight
his way of painting the world
without ever seeing it

people watch him play
some with pity, some with awe
but he doesn’t care for their looks
because when he plays
he is free
floating somewhere beyond
what sight could ever give him

he listens to the rain
like it’s whispering a melody
he hears the laughter of strangers
like a song waiting to be written
he doesn’t need eyes
when he has music
and music has always seen him

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