Six feet of rope and a wobbly chair
The rope is rough against my skin,
the end will begin.
Six feet of twisted thread,
hanging above my head.
It looks strong enough to hold,
before I get cold.
The chair is shaky and scuffed,
the seat is worn and stuffed.
The wood is rotted and the varnish is peeled,
my fate is all but sealed.
One leg is short and rocks on the floor,
like a hesitant knock at the door.
I'll shift my weight to the side,
with nowhere left to hide.
The chair will fall over with a clatter,
and nothing else will matter.
My toes will dangle in the air,
without a care.
The house is silent and deep,
while everyone is asleep.
A pendulum swings with a gentle, slow sway,
marking the end of the day.
No breath remains to mist the eyeglass,
as the quiet hours pass.