Singing to the Silence

Four walls and a window. Same sunrise every day.

He salutes the morning out of habit, though the world's drifted far away.

Boots by the bedside gather dust like medals no one sees. He whispers to

the quiet room, "Is there anyone still thinking of me?" He's got stories

carved in scars, but no one asks him anymore. He keeps waiting for a knock

that never reaches his door. So he sings to the silence just to feel

alive tonight. Holding on through the aching, through the battles out of sight.

If the world has forgotten, he'll still carry on somehow. But it's hard