Broken Chair

Sightless eyes staring out of a tortured soul.

Dark clouds rolling.

He sits, arms at his side, motionless.

Heart leadened in his empty breast.

There is no care left.

No sympathy.

No joy nor love.

A lone chime sounds in the growing wind.

The sun descends down mirroring his joy.

Down, further down, endlessly down.

For there is no bottom in sight.

Just the mere darkness of the swallowing pit.

He sits.

The absence of any feeling makes the soul barren.

Tears well in the corners of the sightless eyes.

Sleep can not take him soon enough.

The chair offers nothing.

Nothing.

Not a damn thing.

So he sits.

Waiting for nothing to come.

And so it does.

Reviews

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

Dark and morose. I like this, and can empathize with the character. Excellent poem, Paul. Continued success.