Jumbled, distracted and devoid of feeling
She’s soft like the wood I feel everyday, crushed,
between the palm of the rocking chair my mind locks me in
It taunts me now, promising peace, a transition from young to old
But it is to early. It is not my time.
I rock back and forth,
Whose there? Be you stranger or friend?
Ahh, alas I feel these bones settling into my chair,
But it is not my time. It is not my place.
I run my hand down the hard ridge on the arm of my chair,
My chair? I don’t think so,
I shuffle my feet and pull on the blanket of my fettered cold routines, patched and incomplete
It is my time. I stand.
I can feel it, running down my face, the burdens of youth,
My hand clenches, missing that feel of the fine lacquered wood between my fingertips
Why am I scared,
Why can’t I just sit down?
My burdens fall,
heavy from my chin.
I don’t look back. It is my time.