A wooden chair sits lonely in the center of a room,
The hole that occupies the seating lies alone,
The silence of its creakless existence foretells doom,
Its past of seaters, the future they forlorn.
The backing is blackened by age,
It lacks the weight that makes it whole,
It lacks the softening turn of a worn page,
The quiet of the room tears at its soul.
The chair sits surrounded by nothing,
A Passerby notices the artifices of the ones the chair wants,
They see the eyes of those ignorant, scathing,
Their hatred forever stands, the chair, it haunts.
This masterpiece of human creation sits forgotten;
It is brightened by the spotlight of views,
The wood is moist, it is becoming rotten,
It would not be in this life if it could choose.
This solemn, abused chair contains but a heart,
A darkened, misunderstood beating strength,
It was made to withstand all from the start,
It would support anyone at length.
The lonely chair needs more attention,
The lonely chair will die alone, its wood darkened,
This loveless chair needs more affection,
The wood needs to be healed, its wounds are blackened,
This chair has a sole gloom.