recovery

i sit in a chair of thorns
   at a fractured table of glass

tired – beaten – worn
   and dying of thirst
the chair tears new gashes in me
   as i try to find comfort
      and buries tiny shards
         just under my skin if i touch it.

i can stand
   turn away from the table
      and walk away from the
         instruments of pain
      even to heal my wounds
         and feel whole
            again

but on the center of the table is a glass
   full of fresh – clean – cold –
      clear water
beside it a pitcher
   its sides frosted
      by it’s icy contents

i am not restrained
   tied – held
there are no bars
   no walls
      or other restrictions
         between me and
            the satiation
               of this thirst

there is, however, one condition

to be refreshed
   i must step through a doorway
      that shall close
         the minute I pass
      and dissolve away into wall
         as if never there
      and I can never go back
         to where I was

i cannot leave the only thing I know
   for what is uncertain
      no matter how enticing
         or glorious

so i sit on a chair of thorns
   at a fractured table of glass

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