Hundreds of years, hundreds of tears,
it was agitatedly deserted- not known
by it's doctile owner, it was antagonized;
antagonized under the imperial of suffrage.
And it happened; the chair was still, unoccupied.
Nevertheless, a shower of catharsis galore
takes place. The chair presumably griefs,
each of the sun bids goodbye, the moon,
bids goodbye, the chair bursting it's mournful
sobs, like a ghost, a ghost who can't hear, seen by everyone.
Behind it's solemnly manicured and well-made metals,
rusting iron and pure bars of gold, there was an
accent of solidarity, an accent of despair and vagrancy.
It was categorized as an antique furniture. A vagabond.
A vagabond which survives conflict between and many nations.
Come and sit the chair, tell you your secrets, problems and anger,
for the chair has dispute but to remain silent. It will
tell you the right and cinicized ways. The chair is a
creature, not a fiend. A creature who has strong hearing sense,
but has a disability to reveal what it had hear.
And the time shall come, that the clock will toll out the hour
that that certain chair will experienced it's ephemeral existence,
it will wither, pure bars of golds and rusting iron will
collapse and shrink. The wealth of it will forbid but if
you'll linger, the chair remain, stood still in the midst of solitude.