The Chair


Under a bridge
strewn with
broken glass
and graffiti

sits and old chair.

Surrounded by the music
of overhead traffic
and squawking ducks

the chair, perched up
high under the bridge
like a throne from
some old forgotten

kingdom, sits empty.

Empty words
from empty hearts
flowing from
those who would lead

come through

our media

like an out of tune
Strauss waltz
played on broken

instruments.

Their words waft
down empty haunted

hallways

from an old
Stephen King movie,

syrupy sweet rhetoric
meant to numb the

senses

and still the savagely
beating heart,

so they can continue
to rip the jugular
from the necks
of the people

and drink the blood
that sustains them.

These words, when
they come,
written with

the beating

of my heart
scratched with bloody
jagged fingernails

like some rain forest
worm, burrowing

under

my skin,
have to be

released,

the pain, too
much to bear.

And meanwhile,
dirty and forgotten,

the throne
awaits its king.

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