Just a chair.

It's just a chair.

An old, wooden chair,
Battered and broken.

Alone, all alone,
In a room where, the sun only shines,
But once a day.
Through dust covered windows,
It seeps through,
Slowly.

It sits, in the centre.
It thinks, tries to remember,
But only fragments return.

Because it has forgotten,
Forgotten how to be a chair.

Sudden bursts of sadness,
Happiness, Joy, Pain.
They all arise, but never last.

It knows.
It knows it is a chair,
But it has forgotten how to be.

It has forgotten why it is there,
Alone.
It remembers laughter,
Tears, Shouts, Songs,
But knows not why they have left him,
Alone, Forgotten.

Then, it notices.
It is not alone.
It is not a lone chair,
But it is surrounded,
By many an object.

All forgotten,
All have forgotten how to be.

A clock,
That has forgotten how to be a clock.
A doll,
That has forgotten how to be a doll.
So many,
That have forgotten.

It sees now.
It matters not that it has forgotten.
But that it is.

That is what matters.
And it melts away,
Becomes another forgotten,
And worries no more.

It's just a chair.