Monday, March 2, 2020

How Often the Music Stops

The world is full of empty chairs,
Any moment, every moment.
Most of them are just sitting there,

Silently, alone or in rows,
At a table, available,
Formal, visual echoes

Of a shape our bodies can take,
An option, an alternative
To the more ancient shapes we make,

Standing, squatting, kneeling, lying.
Who knows when someone first built
A chair, why they bothered trying?

For someone too fragile for earth,
Who uses logs and stones for seats
And cherishes a secure perch,

Every empty chair is precious,
A beckoning island of rest,
But it’s loneliness they suggest.

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