The Typist

I watch him walk up on stage

And become the typist.

A man whose dreams have strayed

Dreams that have gotten lost on the air

Or buried under the earth.

He loses hope and becomes the typist.

He marries a woman he does not love

And as the years go by

His thoughts begin to drift.

He cannot remember his dream

Its face is obscured by the typewriter

And so he becomes the typist.

He ages behind the desk

He masters the skill

His mistakes are few

But still this is not him.

His dream remains

Scarred and broken

But still there waiting to be awakened.

But the sound of typing is all he hears

And so he stays the typist.