Sitting in my Armchair

I was remembering a time,

when I was younger,

a quiet, reflective, young,

boy.

I think the same feelings existed

way back then,

when,

I would wonder about

whatever might be ahead.

There were different

sets of friends.

Or at least we felt different,

wait …

 

Time delivers chapters

to our daily lives,

when once this chair

felt sturdier,

the painted varnish glistened,

in the sunporch,

with books laid about,

some would call them

strewn,

alongside periodicals and

the evening Telegraph

I suppose.

 

It hasn’t really changed too much,

the same stains will remain forever,

its justifiable reason,

told so many times over to whomever

might listen,

though we do occasionally recall,

back then,

well,

they did,

listen.

While the Presses Run

While the presses run, people continue to be real,

if in a day I change my focus,

the shell I’ve composed will remain on the surface.

 

While the presses run, the value of love does remain,

if in a moment she sheds a real tear,

nothing in the world will satisfy her impressive fear.

 

While the presses run, society has a certain makeup,

a sort of balanced hypocrisy to live by,

we all become responsible parties to questions why.

 

While the presses run, ignorance will wreak its havoc

upon those soul who cherish closed doors,

the rest of society might continue to personalize wars.

 

While the presses run, can we possibly give ideals time,

rather we sequester our minds with shallow

immediacy that disallows any true dialogue to grow.

 

I stepped outside in the morning sun, a glorious day,

to find the paper box on my corner, turned on its side.