The boy who sits by the door
the one who is waiting,
perhaps to hear another voice,
or to have his silent one be heard;
his threads are one and many;
most of them tied but loose,
as he stares at nothing in front of him--
nothing, that is to say.
He yearns for an ending of some sort
yes does not allow death its entrance,
through that door of his--
and when the occasional fake truth
flaps by, he can see it not--feel it not, but hear,
he can do well, even through that door.
That boy by the door, looks patient, indeed.
The eons have passed by, and somehow no one
no one has seen him, with his far-forgotten expression,
and the wistful sprig held in his pale hands.
He stares at the door and I stare at him,
wondering how he ever got there,
and who he could be waiting for.
