Quiet Chair

A low chair creaks beneath old weight,

vacant space fills the heavy air’s gait.

Voices slow, deliberate, aged,

while I catch breath, small and caged.

My pulse thrums loud against their calm,

a whispered youth beneath their palm.

Leather scents and history swirl,

where I, the youngest, unfurl.

Silent in a sea of years,

I swallow small my widening fears.