The Chair

Old, yet dear

A remembrance of my one fear

That one thought that had me gast

Had me trembling, aghast

A memorial of my grey misdoubt

That you are gone,

I sometimes want to doubt

Yet, ‘tis the truth of my verity

Yet, my head regards your forebadeness not

Apprehends the empty chair

A simple misconception

But my heart which feels the truth

Constantly fills me with desolation

Left standing, in the dark of abandonment

Abandoned, alone

Nought but total isolation

You are a mere record of languishment

Remembering you, brings me no joy rather close to punishment

So why, does your chair remain so dear?

Clean, polished, not even on it a single hair.

I can’t understand it

And no more can I bear

The constant grievance and gall

The beauty of the fall, now totally blemished

The glow of our affection

Doth fully diminished

Yet venus, my virtue pleads for you still

Bosom fills daily with discomfort

Your chair all I possess for comfort

Henceforth, I pray my lord, do not let me feel

I beseech, turn my soul to stone and my conscience numb

I regard, that is better than the imbecility that follows after the fall

I regard, that is better than feeling at all.