Private The Chair

To me a poem should always take you down, to a depth you might not otherwise go.

Private The Chair
by Keaton Foster



Private—
the chair.
Unnerving—
that stare.
Blue as frost,
sharp as glass,
endless pools
I dare not pass.
Into the abyss—
I'd be remiss—
yet still,
I feel the pull
to chase that null,
that claimed something
born of nothing.

Fate and faith—
crossed wires,
twisting higher.
Ideas descend
like whispered fire,
pulling at the soul
to name the void,
to fill what’s skipped,
what’s been destroyed.

Private—
the chair.
Can’t be ignored.
Golden spine,
jeweled sores.
A throne for kings
in a kingdom of none,
where jesters murmur
and meaning runs.

Logic fled.
Free will—dead.
Killed without a sound.
They kneel.
They squeal.
They wait around.

“Speak,” they beg,
“you, so wise.
Bleed truth from that throne,
unveil the disguise.
Divine, you must be—
for you sit alone,
while we,
the blind,
stand still as stone.”

Lemmings without cliffs,
we wait for the fall.
We bring you our wounds,
our sins, our all.
Wrapped in pain,
scarred by grace—
please show us
how to escape this place.

Private—
the chair.
Above his head,
a sign unread:
Reserved.
Please observe.
Do not sit.
Stand clear.
Don’t dissent.
Don’t draw near.
Rules are rules.
Break them?
You’re out—
spat, tossed,
without a doubt.

Parentheses shrink,
meaning expands.
This is not warning—
this is command.

They crowd around
while he remains still.
If he is wisdom,
they’re waiting to fill
the hole of knowing
with hollow praise—
hoping to bask
in his sacred gaze.

From his perch—
or twisted view—
he says,
without saying:
“I am more than you.
Not perfect,
but near enough.
And if I am close,
then you’re too far
to see
what I see
from where you are.”

Power—
his only deity.
They call him conduit,
divine clarity.
But he’s reaching past
the living’s game,
chasing godhood
without a name.

Private—
the chair.
And I?
I stand aside.
In shadow.
Beyond the tide
of truths distorted,
lies believed.
Where eyes are closed
and minds deceived.

Observation,
my resistance.
Understanding,
keeps its distance.
Truth may flicker—
but I pursue.
A sinner still,
but seeing through.

So here I stand,
not seen,
not swayed,
on the edge
where light decays.
Eyes open wide,
mind unchained—
ready to dive
through the noise,
through the game.

Private—
the chair…


Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2008-2019