Butterfly

Turning a key
half way,
counter-clockwise.

A slow revolution
of rusty hinges,
screaming me a warning
upon thoughtless ears.

Slow and silent steps
along a cold hardwood floor,
as snow skitters inside.

The wooden chair on the floor,
the rope hanging from the ceiling.

And the tape rewinds.

I drift out with the winds
and meander up the dusted walkway.

I turn the key,
clockwise.

Peering inside I see the chair,
upright by the kitchen table.

In it I sit,
drinking my morning coffee.

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