The Chair

In his old leather chair he sits and blinks his eyes the off white sits on his hair like dust upon the mantle. A murky sea of bluish grey where smoking gave him cataracts but they still burn of yesterday the tobacco stains sit deep inside. As he sits in his old leather chair his eyes do blink and dart to catch his arms sit closer than days gone by holding close what was once there. His words are lost ghosts of the night his world has gone out with the wind though the photograph she wore so well the negative still burns a flame within and though the light will bow and dim to him his only company the worn out arms no longer care the weight lifts slowly from his chair.