Unheard.

Enclosed in a room,
not too large,
with just candles,
to light the night,
he lays down all day,
looking at the roof,
and outside through,
a small window,
to the blue sea,
the sunburnt boats,
fishermen with children
and sometimes the dolphins,
as the night draws near,
winds grow cold,
the moon shines bright,
and then he like us,
starts to write,
In candlelight,
about the life he never had,
of places he never saw,
Children he never had,
he then tears the paper,
rolls it and throws it out,
in hope of being read,
by someone,
like us.

Posted from WordPress for Android

7 thoughts on “Unheard.

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