It's strange, how I can recall your stooping form decisively alone & stubborn, hovering above your glass of Burgundy. Back then, you were the same: a ghost left howling in silence, pushing back the rage & guilt-- convinced of your false superiority. Couldn't keep your mouth shut, ranting and raving. Six years old & tired, I listened; you probably didn't think so. Saw then the decrepit form who was to me the face of human vulnerability & could not in my youth offer one ounce of empathy. Sad how you struggled against self-imposed chains; Delusions of grandeur? Yeah, you definitely thought you were Mr. Houdini. Thought you didn't need to unlock your iron chains, so determined & hopeless in insanity, vengeful & willing to share. Couldn't give what you could not return; you'd never let me try anyway. So I watched you struggle, calmly enduring your bitter vengeance. Each vicious act commited in rage only inflicted guilt & sorrow to your mountain of regrets-- I witnessed you becoming empty. You loved struggling, but didn't believe you could win. I still have the table, & every quiet night I'll stare at that ink stained chair. A faint silhouette of you drinking is what still remains. Thank you for showing me the vile traps of the mind; in return I have kept myself pure: To this very day I'm quiet, passive, watchful, forgiving, & unfaltering; I haven't fallen to despair. For you, I will never surrender. Detached is me, unyielding my resolve. I kept your chair to remind me that a prison without metal bars is the cruelest one of all.