The Chair

I've been sitting here for years now
in this chair.
It squeaks and screeches like a child
thin legs barely holding the weight of me, of it all, they stand like frail statues in an aged tomb.

We've been buried for months, sitting on our own failures. This collapse isn't from an outside breeze, but an inside storm, which too often a whirring feeling has been left by it in my stone-head.

Taken on a large enough scale,
the entirety of this
creative impulse circles in itself and draws a zero on a universal canvas.
and yet everything too is relative on scales.
They balance like a pound of flesh and wealth.

How did we leave ourselves on the cross for so long?
Yet you seem resurrected,
and I play the remorseless thief.
What have I stolen, if not time?

Time itself is its own equivocator, and the validation of the crime lies in your hands as much as mine.

I will miss it
That draw of the stairs
beckoning us
like mad princes in whimsical castles.
The ambivalence
the loathing.

It stood for so long against that time, but no more.

I just hope
the seat you find next
is founded in steel
or in paper.