Along in his years, a man sits alone
In the asylum he has architected. Only him
And a spinet piano, illy lit by a flickering flame.
As the man rests his calloused fingers across dead keys,
Silence fuels the fabrication of a new song.
Sitting still, he takes a breath.

The silence is ceased as sharps and flats
Flutter their wings and swarm around the piano.
The stale air explodes into an array of music, transposing
The dark room into a kaleidoscope of sound. Singing
Psalms to their creator, the ivory keys Rejoice
As the man revives them one by one.

Young again, the man no longer sits alone.
Building bridges, matching melodies, and composing choruses;
He finds himself fulfilled.
There is no solitude, there is no confinement.
Only companionship with the song;
His song.