The Symphony
The eyes that have seen the
face of God, the eyes
that have turned away
to stare at wooden planks.
Those are the eyes of
a graveyard, a
tombstone snared in
the strangling embrace of ivy.
How tired this old man
looks. His body, a
coffin, carrying a spirit that
faded long ago.
When he meets my
gaze, I feel nothing
but pity and remorse.
My father. My captain.
His is a life I cannot take,
for he will never truly
die. His is a life destined
for doom and misery.
I think to my parents
and music. I think of
surging emotion
and love.
Never again will I know warm
embrace. Never again
will I see the snow
fall on Nantucket.
Never again will I
hear the cry of a child,
or smell fresh baked bread.
There is nothing left to do.
I have nothing more to say.
The birds are circling.
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