Still, the lonely chair.
Sometimes placed as if, to beckon another.
But below the begrudged earth…
No soul mate arises from the turf.
When well in mind.
When composed in soul.
I travel by the place that claimed to make my youth whole.
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.