He found himself alone
Reading the small bumps and cracks on the four walls that surrounded him.
The flies of interest were drowned by the paint that covered the cracks
And turned them to bumps.

So, there was no one listening to his lost lines of loneliness
Which is all it’s cracked up to be.
He heard that shrill cry of the wrongs he could not right
And no longer fight in constant sorrow from those claims of fault.

So, he let go of the eavesdropping notion of wanting and longing
Brought on by someone else’s pain.
See for yourself, feel for yourself, touch for yourself, heal for yourself,
The voice inside – demanded of him.

He listened in resistance to that obsession
Not victory but surrender.
And then in a shift, she appeared in a garden
With children and words and stories and life.

Something’s going on there he wanted to explore
But thought himself an outsider who could only look and listen.
He has been invited to speak and speak he shall
With words to water the seeds, shot into the ground by the archer.