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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The parched sycamore leaf Walked across the patio Past the portal of my dwelling The alder slab was immobilized By a decorative door stopper Arranged to let the warm November day work its way in I snapped out of the life I was leading Amongst the absorbing pages Of a well written book With my space saved and novel snapped shut I arose to meet the weary traveler At the threshold of my hut There before me was an empty meadow It's vastness leading to my oppressor's home I live here I am my own oppressor I burden myself with Great weights of unjustified restraints I use unused corners To keep my quiet complaints I am well aware of my inabilities To cut myself some slack I speak poorly of myself Behind my own back Never the less I yell Demanding a presence to be shown After several minutes filled with Absolutely nothing at all A second weary traveler crinkles As it somersaults by my feet Tricked by a tumbling leaf There is no one out here for me to meet The melted basil plants Have returned to the ground From which they have came Once formidable weeds Are now all laying lame Once fruitful tomato vines Are now blackened with Nobody but the frost to blame The land is ripe for winter to claim There is no one out here Nobody but my oppressor Who demands I retreat inside I revisit the position I held in my large armed chair Easily returning to where I left off With no acknowledgment To the bookmarks job well done No appreciation to it's Silent steadfast work Trapped through the ages A life pressed between the pages It is here I will remain Free from the steady glare Of my all consuming oppressor Free from time restraints Free from reality Free from idiosyncrasies Free from the world In which my position is unclear It is here I will remain Till my eyes fall heavy The last page is turned Or I'm disturbed by my next imaginary guest 3/5/18
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