She, he or they; should be there,
sitting in that empty chair,
I hear my mind say, with the “mainstream voice”,
but wait a minute here, I do have a choice.
I look around, at little worlds,
social bubbles; that resemble pearls,
their joyous smiles, I do not wish to spoil,
as in my momentary solitude, my blood does boil,
thus, my imagination wakes,
to give to me my caring cakes,
with synaptic savouring, I shall envisage,
to rid a frown, to make a better image.
In that chair, could be anyone,
who has lived, or lives; under the Sun,
so, I pretend to be a genial chat show host,
please welcome my guest, either flesh or ghost.
My guest tonight is Helen of Troy,
let us hope apologies; she does employ,
for love, should be love, not war and greed in disguise,
perhaps her afterlife sentence; is love’s re-design,
maybe I could see Grandpa again,
to both reminisce, and to talk of pain,
by playing an achy game; of unfair comparison,
for the dead are free, the living still build a prison,
or simply, I could think of her, him or them,
to dream up our relationship’s stem,
with harmonious tones, we could re-write our wrongs,
helping new generations, to sing better songs.
But for now, I sit solo; at a table for two
with a muted echo, waiting for you,
so please, do take note of this point, that I make to thee,
when I am conversing alone, I talk to you and me.