Seated Man at the Table, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz
Here I squirm in desperate solitude,
Moving an empty coffee cup like a pawn.
Events in my mind I try to occlude,
So bleak is my heart, sorry to be born.
Here at our table our lives were entwined,
Never to part until the end of time.
Imperfect I am, but foolishly blind,
Not obey the way of this heart of mine.
What contrition must be waged to undo,
The egregiously wrong that has been done,
For my saneness cannot take “We are through.”
Save me from this choking cocoon I’ve spun.
Across the table with lips parted I will,
Lean into the dark to find yours still.