My old grey chair

I’m always the one dear Father

the heart within its quaking

near the borders of tomorrow

on a lake near to waking,

why am I not so vivid

in hues and shades like the future

as the children all dance and sway

to the sharpening tones of the butcher,

why can I not be as they are

moving faster with the spurns of time

needing more, wanting less

knowing it all with no clue.


Perhaps my ignorance and falling short

are my guidance and protection

along each footing my toes trace

with only dreams of recollection.


I sigh here now

looking over the flesh

watching eyes that see nothing

and ears that wont listen,

friends are a skipping stone

smooth and slick,

and my life is unworthy to be known

by those that are so high above me,

lost in the clouds of their minds.

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