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
Concealed
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