The Soloist

by Eric L. Woods

The surrounding world sings of pain

While I practice the art of being vain

All around me people become annoyed

Crooners glance they struggle to avoid

The words he sings are foreign to me

But his torment is plain to all that see

Why do people disapprove of his world?

Nasty glance, terse words, snickers hurled

Could it be that he is happier than I?

His conscious free, singing proud to the sky

Who am I, or we, to judge sanity?

Seems that none of us are truly free

Society has taught us to cover despair

While he casts perceived dignity to air

Between tormented words sung out loud

He smiles to his imaginary crowd

I leave him this evening to his song

To condemn his expression would be wrong

Instead I mutter a prayer or two

In hopes blessings granted won’t be few

He will fade gently into my past

Memories of his song will forever last