The Chair

He sat there in his chair,
Feeling it's old worn arms.
Layer upon layer of tapestry threads,
'Just like my life', he thought.

 

Time and again he had pondered here,
With each turn and twist of his life,
How much thinking had he done in this chair,
How much sweat was wrought.

 

Problems and plans,
All made here in it's arms.
All stringy with promise
Of thought calming all.

 

Yet, the sweat and tears
Tell a different story.
Of pain, of grief.
Of sanity's fall.

 

He no longer was a man
Of dreams.
His present was dark and vast.

The future was no longer
Filled with potential,
But haunted by what he had lost.

 

Like the chair,
With it's arms,
All stringy and worn.

His life was damaged,
By the past.
His dreams rent and torn.

 

Yet the sturdiness,
Of the chair,
Held a promise of a solid frame.

 

Perhaps the future,
Of his life,
Could be beautiful again.