The Armchair

 

We languish in an easy chair,

with a mind which really does not care.

The world is before us on a box which is given a tepid gaze,

and depending on its content our eyebrows might offer a raise.

 

From this comfortable chair was my overall view,

 a vista of tragedy which was forever new.

My opinions could be conveniently formed by another,

so there was little thought to be given about the matter.

 

From my wing backed chair I often gasped,

or as a tear rolled down my cheek released.

It was my evening matinee, my own news reel,

as the one eyed box which did my attention steal.

 

In such homely comfort I was far removed,

from any sense of empathy as I could not be moved.

I was in blissfull luxury steadfastly confined,

to imagine myself permanently anesthetised.

 

In a luxuriant posture I would sit and survey,

a presentation which I had never the personal courage to forestay.

I became the armchair devout and loyal believer,

of anything which floated in from the ubiquitous ether.