So often I sit at this old table
Before the light of dawn
Has blushed upon the window sill
Verses spoken long ago
By those who danced
And laughed
And cried
And touched the very wood
I now feel beneath my hand
The sound of the old upright
Echoes in another room
Blending like the strings
Of a symphony
While rhythm keeps time
With the clinking of ice
In glasses of bourbon and gin

Their adventure
Their tragedy
Their comedy
Their poems
Finding their way
To my disarranged mind
From the ink left behind
On tattered pages
Stories untold
Yon the dawning
Tales only spoken
Neath shadows of moonlight
Secrets never shared
‘bove the whisper

Yet somehow I can hear them
In the silence
Feel them in my hands
Trembling neath the parchment
The smell of perfume
Embracing the air that I breathe
In the softness of the morn
The laughter
The tears
Lingering softly against my face

All of it
Of course
From those who have
Wandered here
In the laughter
In the tears
Inscribed in the wood
Like beautifully etched glass
So that
Would feel their touch
Hear their whispers
Smell the perfume
Of the poetry they left behind
In the tenderness of the silence
In the calm before the dawn
“Knowing” –
They will never be


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