The Sound of Him

Black tile summons his tears, A note slightly in between, As he play by ears, The cries of his heart’s pristine. With the dancing of his fingers, Stepping on black and white floors, Leaping away, but his soul lingers, Leaving with each step all his colors. The room, filled with his melody, Of sadness, grief, and agony. The beauty within the soft press of tiles, Echoes for miles and miles. He bowed his head, and tears fell, His sound, like a story no one can ever tell. He plays happily mezzo-forte, crescendo, He then mourns, pianissimo, decrescendo. Alas!, the music now nears its end, After that, he’ll be back to play pretend. He’ll play the last notes softly, Turn around, bow, and before rising up, The last of his tears, he’ll let fall freely.