Sun-Dusted Velvet

In the pawn shop glass, it held its own,

a maroon velvet chair, past its prime.

Faded by sun, a story half-shown,

a silent testament to stolen time.

A patch of light, a dusty, bright beam,

caught the armrest, worn down to thread.

Each flattened fiber, a silent, sad dream,

of bodies once resting, of words left unsaid.

The color, once rich, now bruised and so deep,

a stain of forgotten, old elegance, true.

What secrets did its plush surface keep?

What lonely sighs, what loves did it brew?

It sat there, maroon, in that quiet display,

waiting for someone to take it away.