Sit and listen, he talks and she sits.

Roof meets house,

walls meet floor,

tablemeets chair, and chair meets me.

Even when my words are loud he will not hear

thunderstorms, the gongs and cymbals can't be heard, just seen.

In her mind she thinks of a spring day, she lets her brain settle on this one thought

the skies are painted black and blue,

when the two meet they are pretty

what looks pretty in her chair will certainly not look pretty everywhere

and deep down her black and blue are stale.

The chair is hard, tightly woven

bound tight like you

I sit and feel the burn of the black and blue

the chair has a sizable cushion but when the body hits it still stings.

Somehow still falling through

ground is hard, and I'm here for good

I'm up to my neck in the woven trap, and you sit and keep me tightly wrapped

now the legs break off the chair 

getting up to run, fleeing with terror and despair

the back falls and is not caught.

I still sit with my webbing around my neck 

tied and taut.

He can see and smell his anger,

red hot

and now he thinks about the battle he has fought.

His woman is gone and his chair is wrought.

His house is a mess and his table is missing pieces

the day is done, he thinks about everthing he hasn't won.

When he sleeps at night in his bed

the pillow is pushed above his head.

For it is worse to feel

feel the gentle touch

he holds his head in his hands and gets a certain rush.

Maybe someday his bones will rot 

and she will be oh long forgot

but please let her spring day be not,

not forgot.