Chairs Upon the Wall
Chairs upon the wall
The table that adorns it-
Dusty and tall.
The table stands on oaken stilts
The rug beneath holds ancient mold
Upon this painting, hanging still and bold
Inside this manor, which my hands did mould
I sit at the table
upon the wall
At night they hear my muffled call;
My descendants in this ancient house
They blame the rustle in the wall
on an old wheat mouse.
But what when the wheat mouse dies?
Will they accept what assaults their eyes?
That abrupt confusion that irks the core-
That after life, there is life- or more.
Copyright © Michael Warner | Year Posted 2017
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