We Sit On Chairs

We sit on chairs.

A candle burns—

its light trembling

like the sorrows

stored in us

for three decades.

Oh, blind force—

how blind you are.

When we waited

for connection,

you handed us silence.

Oh, nature—

how useless you are.

You gave the earth

its beauty,

your colors, your breath—

but left us

with dead souls.

We share our breath

with the room,

the chair,

the table,

the dead window.

A cigarette glows

between our fingers.

An ache

deep enough

to touch the bone.

I knocked on your door.

No answer.

I knocked again.

Still—

nothing.

As we try to leave,

together—

the handle grips us.

The night begins to cry.

Stay, it says.

*Stay with us.

We are dying

and alive

at once.

Dusky eyes.

Graying hair.

Every dawn

kills us again.

Only the candle

lets us breathe.

Our heads hang

under a roof.

Our hearts—

frying in silence.

What a torture.

The desire to live.

The hope to survive.

The dream to imagine—

all rotting

in a room

filled with dead souls.

Oh, blind force.

Oh, nature.

Men are lonely

on this earth,

waiting

for redemption.

And you—

lost in your own world,

touching warmth,

kissing life—

while we

sit here

learning

how to kiss death.

I stand.

I spit at you.

I rage at you.

My hands burn.

My spirit floods with blood.

I want to destroy you—

Oh, blind force.

Oh, nature.

But—

we don’t kill you.

We die.

Again.

Again.

Again.

In this room.