The chair

Bent at the corners,

And splintered at the edges,

Scraped in places,

And folded against the wall,

My chair of flesh is leaning,

Empty, tired and cold,

Every joint is creaking,

And my legs are growing old…

 

I wait for days on end,

For someone to undo me,

Open me up gently,

And rest upon me a while;

Head laid back in quietude,

And feet up on my hassock,

Bringing me back to frame,

With one sinewy knock…

 

I have felt my whole life,

The weight of your heart,

Heavy and heaving,

Quiet and dreaming,

Still, unmoving,

Broken and falling apart,

In the lumps of your body,

Beating from the start…

 

I can tell stories,

To the lonely stopping by;

Tales of how to be forgotten,

And how to slowly die,

But I don’t have a voice,

All I can do is try,

Some sit and listen,

Others mostly cry,

At my rasping despair,

Wondering what to change,

How to move this rock inside?

Maybe it is the curtains,

Maybe it’s the air?

That’s strange!

I answered with my silence,

What do I know,

I am a chair,

But you seem to have clean-forgot,

That  once,  I too was made in a pair…

 

Siddharth Pathak | 7th October, 2013


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