Walls of Years
I am but four walls painted purple, I remember that day,
the girl of raven hair, standing on a ladder painting me.
I was laughing because her hair had streaks of purple,
and she was dappled all over with dots of me, you see.
The next few days, I was left alone to dry in quietude,
then came the antique furniture and mauve drapery.
Art work was attached to me in hues of purple,
my whole essence was lovely and I rested peacefully.
I liked to watch the girl dance around in her pretty dresses,
looking at herself in the ornate, oval mirror, so pretty.
Often she would sit at her desk writing in her diary,
with tears in her eyes, head bowed, I was full of sympathy.
One day, she wore an elegant dress of white lace,
she danced and pranced around the room smiling happily.
I was so happy for her, but not exactly sure why I was,
but I should have been sad because she was leaving me.
Years my door remained closed, the furniture covered,
then one day, an old lady walked in holding the hand of girl.
She stroked the raven hair of the girl she called granddaughter,
and told her, "this is the room where I used to dance and swirl."
Written September 4, 2012
For the contest, If These Walls Could Talk,
Sponsored by Black Eyed Susan