Angry Red Chair

As I sit in Angry Red Chair, head in hand, for what do I care.

My fingers numb, they turn blue; The need for living can only be you.

As the spider spins its silk, feeling entombed, death thee bilk.

Each breath becometh more labored, to this Angry Chair, I have been anchored.

My heart, this damnation, my dungeon, this feeling of suffocation.

To spill, to split thy wrist, the cravens blood, Nay! Forget not our affair.

I will fear not in the shadow of death; I will await, to the soul and last breath.

To Angry Red Chair, I am bare, open, and divine, strapped to this Angry Chair.

Time dost thou not heal, only omits, trodden with burden and zeal.

It appears there is no hope, I believe, hence my ever discerning yelp.

So fated to this chair, my traitorous lover, in time of need, you lavish harm and devour.

Scourging my skin with earnest, copulate my womb like a tempest.

I fear no longer what I am feeling, life-sustaining, the caving in, the kneeling.

Oh, my Angry Red Chair, dost thou matter? For no longer do I care.

My Angry Red Chair, to this I fear; When I stand to walk, should I dare?