His Own Words Poem by bob barci

Quietly he sits
just inside the window
of the darkened room.
Barely visible
by anyone walking past.
Look close, very close,
and you can see him
by the moonlights glow
or a dimly lit light.
His head is titled
toward his lap.
Perhaps he is asleep
dreaming of his childhood.
If you are close enough
to the open window,
you can hear him speak.
Is someone else there?
No, but yet he speaks.
Muttering perhaps,
of words he has written.
He speaks no other words but his own.
But, perhaps, he should.
Maybe then, someone will listen.
Then, who are they listening to?
He, who speaks,
or the owner of the words?
So, he sticks to his own,
hoping someday they’ll catch on.
Hurry, someday, hurry up.