AuburnScribbler

Empty Chair

 

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.