71. My Broken Chair


As a trust unbroken

A love made to last

My chair, a token

An attachment to past

Wonder of Man

Unable to renew

Try as much he can

A longing real, true

A mind unable to let go

Things once he lived with

Old, worn out though

Beaten gold of a goldsmith

Tethered by a rope

Lies my chair by a corner

I don’t seem to cope

Without it, my heart barer

A world, full of choice

Brand new colors

I croak in the same voice

Reality, to my eye blurs

I do not know

My own emotion

A nature not to let go

Lying by my chair’s portion

A time I think would come

To turn my eyes away

A new sound in my eardrum

To leave my broken chair one day

© Venkat

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One Comment to “71. My Broken Chair”

  1. all of us hold onto the strings to the past – memories or objects! very moving indeed!

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