.

Many have wondered about the stars in his eyes

Without ever knowing the object of his mind

Many a question about what he really saw

Not even one answer as to what was his dream,

Though whenever he played the age-old instrument,

A rare dark wood cello, which to him was sacred,

His face became so bright, his smile became so wide,

Tears rose to his eyes and his large heart would  swell

Some thought he looked at them, others he saw heaven,

Some ever thought he reached the love so long craven,

I, for one, dared to hope he’d chosen me for muse,

But in the end, not once, he truly looked at me…

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