There's An Old Man...

There's an old man
Sitting beside the shadows
Of his two children.

The children he lost track of,
The children he was snatched away from.

With a blank expression on
His phantom-like face,
He can't fathom
Where he left his keys
Or his home-made accordion.

Where was all the wood
That sculpted his hands,
That in turn
he sculpted with his hands?

Why weren't they talking?
And why are they so young?


They look about ten,
When did the last forty years fly by?

He hums a silent tune
And plays an accordion
Without using any hands.

Did he make the wrong choices?
He feels a nod one each side.


Did he left himself go?
They're nodding.
Why won't they speak?

Inside his head, it was
Always him and his workshop
Him and his music

Him and his accordion
Him and himself.
Maybe being here wasn't too bad
At least it seemed


Like he wasn't alone.
He'd been alone for too long.