My Oppressor and I
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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