The Chair
In his old leather chair
he sits and blinks his eyes
the off white sits on his hair
like dust upon the mantle.
A murky sea of bluish grey
where smoking gave him cataracts
but they still burn of yesterday
the tobacco stains sit deep inside.
As he sits in his old leather chair
his eyes do blink and dart to catch
his arms sit closer than days gone by
holding close what was once there.
His words are lost ghosts of the night
his world has gone out with the wind
though the photograph she wore so well
the negative still burns a flame within
and though the light will bow and dim
to him his only company
the worn out arms no longer care
the weight lifts slowly from his chair.
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