IWas

I was walking along the railroad tracks in Whistle Stop, Georgia

If asked a question I was not able to give a response
I've been passed around from institution to institution
with the stark emptiness of those rooms
a perfect match for what my life has become
The years have passed me by like some slow disease
and only I seem to know who I am and where I'm from
I've been told time and again that I'm just a sightless simpleton
I can't speak the words my dad would sign into my hand to bruise my spirit
I can't hear the language to which people so often succumb,
as they confine themselves to what they are accustomed to
Words don't mean anything anyway

I am younger and I can see my mother
She would cradle me in her arms like only a mother can,
and she would read to me for hours on end
even if I couldn't comprehend all that was written
I remember how I felt the day she gave me her music box,
my hand sliding around its spherically cool veneer,
its gently lilting hymn a perfect match
for the serene manner with which I imagine she carried herself
The melodic vibrations worked their way into my soul like an inchworm,
rhythmically gliding their way through my body,
never stopping until I felt them in my bones
They could haunt a man for lifetimes

I long for that feeling now
My mind seems to always drift back to that music box
I know there is no future in the past
and for me no future in the future
I have come to terms with myself and that is my only company
I'm alone and often as lonely as the blackness that surrounds me and won't let go
All I have are memories of my mother and our music box,
memories of a time when I felt someone was living to give me love,
when someone would hold me like I mattered and promise me the world
I no longer have anyone or anything to care for
so no one will miss me when I'm gone

I was standing on the railroad tracks in Whistle Stop, Georgia
I was