• Martin Wardley


Chained to this chair

Breathing, numb

Blind, deaf and mute

Bound by all these things I cannot do

And all the things I haven’t done

This lack of movement

Of momentum

Bathed in anger and resentment

This distinct lack of contentment

These binds, biting at my broken skin

Blistering and smarting

Screaming and barking

Definitive scarring


No blood loss, no bleeding

This comfort, misleading

All anxious, all seething

Internally pleading

For respite, for change

For the scene rearranged

With despair I withdraw

To repair, to restore

Defeated, depleted

Hope fallen, retreated

But on closing the eyes I can fly

On opening the mind I may soar

I can dance, I may glide

I can search, I may find

Those places I’ve been

And those yet unseen

To touch the untouched

To smell and evoke

The incense and smoke

Of moments or thoughts

Of plans or of schemes

Held in the vaults of remembrance

Or the deep mines at the entrance

To dreams

Realities can be altered

It seems

Chains now rusted and rotten

Perished, crumbling, forgotten

The chair now silently sits

Befittingly abandoned, dismissed

Realities can be altered

I submit

27th January 2021

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