Still, the lonely chair.

Sometimes placed as if, to beckon another.

But below the begrudged earth…

No soul mate arises from the turf.

Ò

When well in mind.

When composed in soul.

I travel by the place that claimed to make my youth whole.

Ò

Though the canvas seat is aware of my grace.

Not a body to claim my face.

Profound is the dirt that gathers the whole.

Anguish the chrome contemplation of an  adrift soul.

 

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