All My Broken Chairs
I have lived with all a long time now...the plaintiff cry of the gull
The wind on the wing..the haunting slap of memories against the ribs.
I have sat like a cat staring at a leaf twitching and trembling as it dies
And I have done much more than this is my capricious life.
Lurching from the languid into an unzipped dance
On that erratic stage...those floorboards of uncertainty.
There is unrest and bloody seas beyond my doors
Beyond my puny locks and bolts...
The Real World rushes into my life
But here...
My World is treading on this path
And winding thru a garden past the heaving ponds
My footfalls leads directly as I wish
Down to the shaded patch
And there I sit in all my broken chairs.
I am no Genevieve..no Lady of Shallot...there was no Lancelot
There is just my garden...and myself...and all my broken chairs.