My neighbor was a writer,
Kept to himself, never said a word.
Never had a friend, never needed one,
Instead choosing to separate himself with the world.
I would watch him through my bedroom window,
As he paced around his study with curtains drawn.
Pondering on ideas, and plots, and words to use,
Sometimes all night ‘till the crack of dawn.
If not on his feet he would be sitting at his desk,
Writing every word that came to his mind.
I always wonder what would I see,
If his eyes were his and were also mine.
Hours upon hours he would write and write,
Sometimes tearing up pieces and throwing them away.
Starting anew with a blank sheet of paper,
He would use what he gave up on for another day.
Everyday I observed him as he worked his trade,
But he would never look back though I was ever so near,
He was in his own world, far away in distant lands,
Where he had nothing to lose and nothing to fear.
Years past and time was catching up,
He was getting older, weaker, and worse in every way.
Sensing that death was knocking on his door,
My neighbor finished his last piece and was gone the next day.
I was the first to witness his demise,
He was sitting at his desk when God took his soul.
I did not panic as he looked at ease and at peace,
And I called the ambulance before I entered his home.
The door was open, as if inviting me in,
As if he already knew that I was coming.
And there he was, only his shell remaining,
But what lay next to him was far more interesting.
Written on his a sheet of paper was his last piece,
A poem, only a few stanzas in length.
I picked it up and started to read,
What he wrote with his last wisps of strength.
My neighbor is a strange fellow,
Keeps to himself, never says a word.
Doesn’t have a friend, doesn’t need one,
Instead opting to separate himself with the world.
He watches me though his bedroom window,
And I let him by keeping my curtains drawn.
He would sit, and watch, and would never leave,
Sometimes all night ‘till the crack of dawn.
He even watches when I am at my desk,
Whilst I am writing for my column in The Daily Times.
I wonder what does he expect to see,
If he had the choice to see through these eyes of mine.
Hours upon hours he would just sit and watch,
As I tear up my bills and throw them away,
He even watches as I write on blank sheets of paper,
Grocery lists, memos, and things to do the next day.
Everyday he watches me as I go through my day,
But I would never look back though he was ever so near.
He is afraid of the world, and by immersing himself in mine,
He has nothing at all to lose and nothing to fear.
I am old now, and how the years have past,
And I have never got a chance to meet this neighbor of mine,
But I am leaving the door open in these final days,
Should he would want to meet me and have a glass of wine.
Oh neighbor, you are such a peculiar fellow!
I have never met you in person, nor have you I.
Nonetheless I feel a bond has grown between us!
And I leave you this poem before I die.
I put the poem down, took a step back,
Marched straight out the house and back into mine.
I went to my bedroom window, and looked straight out,
And the thought of my neighbor made me smile.
