Chair

In the corner of a room
there is a chair of ordinary variety
that from time to time finds itself
the cradle of a singular person.
Though it is an inadequate source of comfort
the sitter, with hesitance,
finds it to be a spot of common revisitation.
It is supportive but in the most fruitless of ways;
Moving with an idle sway.
Cogent, adverse - certainly; the invitation is always there;
And to be a sitter means submitting to the chair, so naturally it happens;
Or rather anything else is what seems to lack;
And it is the implication that hosts such feebleness.

The walls of the room are without adornment
save for a very decorative window
that is often admired.
A view is only considerable if
when concealed, sight remains.
The corner: throbbingly drab omniscience.
There is a table in the center, always set to dine,
waiting for the rare diner.
The tablecloth gathers dust, the silverware mars with rust.

It is the walls that frame the room
though the insipid tone of the atmosphere
lingers after having left.
Its fixedness makes for a persistent fallback;
a place to be when a pause seems tolerable,
and a window affords a fresh view should there be one.

A most ambiguous sense of freedom, let alone safety:
Disquieting moments of stillness
tempered by pensiveness striving for patience.
Comfort is finding a balance
between feeling too exposed and too confined.

To be on one's feet in motion is a worthy ideal.