Old Chair

rich brown leather covers my old chair

so soft and molded to my frame

one leg hangs o’er the arm, the other down,

as I lean my head deep into the back

my arms holding the fluffy, plaid pillow

tight to my chest while it supports my book

a tale of elemental gods and powers

that we, standing on our own two feet

can’t imagine wielding, or just can’t imagine

but this is my favorite place, in my old chair,

to allow my vision to soar, and yet,

I remain safe in the arms of my chair

the soft light from silver lamps

are the guides to my travels as I close my eyes

and tally the cost of the tickets to go

wherever the written page shall take me