To Sit in a Musty Chair

To Sit in a Musty Chair

I sit here now, in a musty, wooden chair,

gazing upon your face and hair as fluid as the wind in the air.

I try to commence a conversation, as gently as I can speak,

yet you gaze on with a stony expression, and silence overcomes the meek.

My fingers kiss your chilled, ivory cheeks,

my lips caress your ears of words from my soul,

yet you still gaze on with a dull expression,

mocking my greed evermore.

I grow impatient, furious that you'd make me anticipate;

yell and scream at you like a ravaged beast,

my gory heart pierced with a obsession and hate.

Yet you still gaze upon me, with your lips unquivering and eyes unmoving.

My eyes ignite with passion and despair,

my mind infested with agony.

My entangled fingers latch onto the Devil's hand,

and tear you limb from limb,

attempt to detach you from me entirely. . . 

silence.

Remaining paper pieces float around the foul, distilled air,

your delicate face shredded and fluttering everywhere.

I breathe quite heavily, engulfing flames staining down my face;

but in the corner of my vision I see your eyes,

your fiery, hazel eyes,

gazing upon me still.

Mocking me,

taunting me forevermore.

I sit here now, in a musty, wooden chair,

gazing upon your face and hair as fluid as the wind in the air.

                                                   - 2010