A Deaf Man’s Flute

On most days, I am the silent spectator standing just behind the barricade,
always the front seat passenger in a moving car,
never the actual protagonist, but always a presence in the story the editor chose not to cut out.
Which is to say,
I am made up of almosts,
made up of goals and dreams that’ll never truly reach an end,
plights that’ll always fall short,
and stories that’ll never find closure.
Which is to say,
I am trapped on the horizon,
always at an end running towards the end.

These days, I spend my time telling myself it’s okay,
how watching is as important as actually doing,
because who will applaud if everybody decides to run in the race.
Which is to say,
I am meant for a simpler greatness,
and maybe, somewhere, that’s okay.
I watch minutes roll into hours, days, weeks, months and years.
Time is a foreign concept for me,
always out of my grasp, almost within reach.
Isn’t it funny how we can watch reigns turn into ruins
in the same time it takes for a new life to be born?
Look over at America for instance.
A baby is born every 4.5 seconds in the US,
the same time it takes for Trump to sign a new treaty.

I trivialize my past the same way I trivialize my present,
almost with an air of romanticism.
Which is to say,
I am lost without a character to play in an untold story.
I like to tell myself that my words matter more than they ever could,
that for once, the doormat matters more than the actual house,
but nobody’s as interested in unsung symphonies as me.
Which is why, I let myself wander,
find new sticks and stones to fantasize over,
and sing out my stories in lands without ears.
Which might poetically mean,
that I play my flute for the deaf,
but let’s save that for later,
nobody has time for poetry anyway.

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