Photo by Tim Foster on Unsplash

Last Chance #8

Generally, I like chairs (and board games)
Swinging, double, cautioned
(*spelling mistake I intentionally take just like the leg I was crossing the other way around to confuse the eye-brain-coordination, habit got reversed in order to find the red cube that was lying so stuffed under the carpet, I couldn’t see the number, seriously)
For laisure, for napping, for co-working my behind in front of the world
I like to sit comfortably
After hobbling hobbling for who knows how long
I want to lay down
I want stand up
But I am tied to this 1 legged chair
Upside down trompo
Carousel of no destination but to spin out of hand
As soon as today
I will rest my case
Throw old papers
Throw old joints to dance
Dance old songs to chance
Last chance to rhyme
Without spinning blind.
.
.
.
I had to break the last leg of an imagery chair of comfort to cease twisting reality as I learn to cope without a chance.
Least but not last — auto-correction falters.
Gambling little hopes in higher costs.
Suicidal, rape-life ropes.
Gravitational, I push the envelope.
.
.
.
Cube swallowed,
no numbers,
as is,
no pills,
sooner or later,
I am whole.