Forever in limbo, forever in love

Picked up at a fair for antique furniture.
Catching my eye an old writing bureau.
Pulling out the desk still padded in leather.
So purely built for writing pleasure.
But deep in the night I hear it scratching.
The moans and groans stop me from sleeping.
My vintage bureau creaks under pressure.
As she sits and pens poetic inertia.
A spirit in limbo from days long ago.
Her pride and joy this writing bureau.
By sunrise it’s over and I rest In peace.
Until I hear the sound of birds cheep.
My bureau packed up left tidy and clean.
You wouldn’t think somebody had been.
Though I hear whispers like thoughts left behind.
Words of confusion but always in rhyme.
Never finding the paper on which she wrote upon.
So I listened to the echoes linking one by one.
Her story tells of poetry and life.
The desk her only outlet to make it right.
Sat in the chair she became old and grey.
Gripping a pen until she slipped away.
So I just listen noting each of her words down.
Her story of death and why she’s still around…

Upon death I hesitated, rejecting the tunnel of light.
I just couldn’t leave, my beloved poetic life.
Built into the wood grain, root and branch.
Forever in limbo, forever in love.

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