This poem was found like an orphan at the door of my consciousness;
He says his name is "Chair" ;
I hate the art of war,
And the cunning craft of compromise,
And anything that moves too much or too fast,
Or rests like a blasphemist.
I have laughed and cried,
And I "Saw that it was good".
But never learned to unbreak a heart,
Or bring a memory to now,
Or redeem the expanse of innocence.
Not even to persuade the "I" to move toward a "Goal".
I can only sink with the ship,
Fall with the plane,
Die with the dead,
Get carried away in the carrier of time,
And watch it very carefully sitting in a chair.
I am the chair.
When the woman pushes with pain,
I guess it's just polite to be born.
"You have never lived", you might say.
But take note that universe is old,
And life might be a distraction,
And who can say that fireworks
Are more impressive than the night behind
Or bangs are bigger than the silence in between?
I sit like a chair,
And if anything important comes up,
I will let you know.