What led to this? Battered and scarred, and past your prime, definitely.  You’ve been put out to pasture to await your final resting heap.

In my vision you were the chair upon which unread stories and chronicles were woven, rather than the chair upon which bills were paid and work reports were constructed.  So then, what kind of wordsmith did you serve?  Was it a great writer who sculpted stories from word clay?  Was it a poet who understood metre and rhyme the way a farmer knows the wetness of the soil from a brief touch of earth?  Was it a reporter who sought to make sense of the divisive times in which we live?  Was it a fellow blogger, hoping for one more follower and one more like?

This chair now sits awaiting garbage day sometime next week. The disposer, perhaps overly eager to get a spot on a curb that is far too often filled with rejected items of our day to day domestic life.  Before the metal truck appears, the pile will have undoubtedly grown unmanageable.  For now, though, the chair sits solitary, perhaps missing the desk, or perhaps missing the writer.