Sat in his old devoted chair,
A chair that has been through his life,
Listening to his sorrows.
And as the clock strikes that magic hour,
And the man sits pondering his life,
Seeing how he had squandered his life away,
Away in that chair.
The chair his keeper,
The keeper of his soul,
The keeper of his thoughts,
How that chair knows more about him then himself.
At war with the life he has lived,
For he has wasted it worrying about the past,
And wondering about the future,
With no time for the present.
Living no where but in that chair,
Spending his life not living,
But waiting to die,
Looking forward to that day.
And as that clock struck that magic hour,
The man realized his life was gone,
Left in that chair,
As he left this world behind.
The chair a constant reminder,
To all,
Of a man's life,
A life gone to shame.
For what did he live for,
But for death,
And what did he die for,
But for life.
The chair empty now,
But now can feel full,
For he is gone,
And so are his sorrows.
The chair no more to hold,
But the dust left by memories,
Memories of yesteryear,
In which death once lived.