An Essence Remains

Forgotten in the attic of the mind,
The old armchair of comfort
Waits with worn creases;
Suspended
Alone in time.

The last visitor was a lame pigeon -
A warbling feathered sightseer,
Not a loyal sitter;
Merely
Escaping life’s rhythm.

Since human warmth had left the home,
The chair had no purpose
But to wait,
To rot:
An abandoned throne.