Loss

He plays the typewriter like a piano
Letting the mundane and the magical seep out
He can make you weep with a single line
And then laugh at yourself for letting it out

He fills the air with the voices of the lost,
Of the found, of the vagabonds and the lovers
With a melody, he uncovers the voices
Of the silent, of the weak
Of those who will never have the power to speak

He holds the stigma after all these years
He is but a vessel for many ears
To be alive is to be empty, to be filled with words
The voices will always show him the world

Through him, with him, in him
May his soul rest in peace