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The chair sits in the empty circle of shadows.
Blindly block the arrows of life
He cries, but no one can hear
He wishes, but no one can answer
Different, if only things were
as they used to be
as they might be or even
as they should be
No matter, no light
pierces this circle
made by self for self
No matter, now.
People walking by
knocking
might understand
life exists in a circle outside
that door, this chair;
the paintings are life but
not for now.
Sandra Dorland
12/12/02
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About SandraDorland
I've been writing in various forms most of my life. I've had some editorial work published in a small southern newspaper where I lived, but otherwise no publication credits. I have taken a variety of creative writing courses and always received favorable feedback and encouragement to continue, and my friends and family have been after me for years to write and publish. While part of me yearned to do just that, I always found some sensible reason not to submit... and, therefore, never to be rejected... and never accepted either! At long last, I decided to start sharing my work. And here I am!
