Chariots of the aged. Poetry.

They sit slouched in unrolling chariots

driven with short strokes of heels,

slow and hesitant,

if they feel adventurous.

They live in a world of disinfectant smells

and too-short family visits.

And some don’t seem to know they’re alive.

But they can emerge,

not quite as spectacular as a butterfly’s.

Still …

What can cause this change,

this temporary wakening?

Music …

I’ve seen eyes open

and heard voices sing,

and knew hearts were racing.

Even if–yes, even if

their chariots

could only be driven by short

hesitating heels,

drawing them along

every bit as wondrous

as Ben Hur ever was.

Remember them,

and better yet,

visit often.

And play if you can,

so they can sing,

and feel, and love, and hope,

for your next visit,

When their souls become

driven by song.


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