The Music at Platform Nine

Where you sit beneath The yellow light. Your hands on strings, lost In time's tide. Notes fall slow Onto The sleeping town. No one stops, no one Turns around. Your silent tale Drifts in the autumn air. Each broken chord, a Memory laid bare. You lean against the Wall, eyes Closed. The only voice now is what you Compose. Who still dreams Beneath this night? A shadow lost in Neon light. Waiting for someone who won't Arrive. Still he plays, just To survive. The train departs, the Cold wind sighs. You vanish into Goodbye's disguise. Still he plays the notes Of the past. For strangers who Never ask. Connie Plays. The station empties, and His music lingers.