he tried, but

there’s an end to every game,

and while days seem the same,

from inside, there is one

that’s not

like other days

he lacked, and

knew he’d always ever lack,

he didn’t have the knack,

for inside, he found one

who was

turned side-aways

for help, he couldn’t reach;

for friends, he couldn’t call —

then he laid down,

he laid down on the bareness of his bed,

and through the aching in his head, he heard

a violin

who understood

it all