This wicker chair has run the miles, seen the sun.
I have breached it’s body, it cradles my ghost.
And of every passing day, I’ve numbered one.
Of one day only may I boast.
I did not give my life for what I lived.
I did not earn the things my life forgived.
Unlike an eagle did I walk the earth,
yet scavenged fiercely did I here for worth.
Those that ramparts call their home,
whose days are bought and sold by fate.
Whose time I keep much like a bloem,
that slowly withers at the gate.
What family has my wicker chair profaned?
What household my security disdained?
How many ‘morrows did I give away
that I may live another here today?
I keep the grass, I tend the garden box.
How many bodies have I buried here,
that fertile beauty grows of lilly’s flaxen locks,
and dandelions do so dane to cheer?
Whose blood is this upon my hand?
Whose unsaid words I understand?
Am I the orphan and the mother both,
or but the making, and the broken oath?
willnight 