Gliding through the room with such grace,
a friend, a mother, an unfamiliar face.
Their sharp notes set our world flat,
no understanding when you don't see them in the black.
A lonesome melody plays in your head
as cold air stands your hairs on your neck.
The constructor of this anonymous symphany
is rarely heard or seen.
They are here where we are,
they sing their same song.
A sign, a sound, an uneasy feeling,
they relive their lives still searching for meaning.
