Worlds Fall Apart.

I am so restless.
Still, I sit here on a timeworn, wooden chair.
A story of the past, those ill-belonging, beloved spots of age-old paint.
I've known the groove of this seat for too long.
Its ups and downs. Its essence of "undermost" conformity.
I ache to move, but wait to see. Separate, we lean forward.
I grip the flat of the seat between my groaning legs and stare
At a less-than-empty, off-white canvas as I watch Another's hand.
Oh, how my fingers long to know again the straight of that brush.
The unstoppable fearlessness held in its unpredictable movement.
Once was mine to have, to hold--no longer. Somewhere I surrendered.
Not willing to move, I wait and watch the masterful Artist.
Illegible lines and fateful patterns--a mess of enthralling color-dance.
Dumbstruck I sit. Few understand and all who don't abandon.
And Still. I am here on a timeworn, wooden chair.