The Witnessed Seat

 

I wait in quiet rooms where dust descends

My legs hold still beneath the passing years

Time leans its weight on me without sound,

A silent witness to hopes and fears.  

I bore the small and swinging restless feet,

Crayons and laughter marked my patient wood,

The world felt wide and kind when they sat,

In innocence, in childhood’s bright flood.  

I felt the backs of bodies bend and strain,

Dreams pressed against my frame, then slipped away,

I held their weight and learned endurance,

In every dawn, in every day.  

I wore the gilded gold and called it mine,

Crowns lifted high, yet hollow in my grain,

They judged my worth, I held their ambition,

Their fleeting dreams, their transient reign.  

I saw the futures drawn in whispered rooms,

Their hands moved quietly across my face,

I carried secrets none may ever know,

Silent keeper of time and space.  

I stood unmoving in the halls of law,

Lives balanced on my steady seat,

I bore their guilt, their hope, their fear alike,

A witness to both bitter and sweet.  

I felt the hands of many, rough and worn,

No guard divided me from honest hearts,

I learned that hope may rest with all,

In simple acts and humble parts.  

I rose in tiers where countless voices cried,

I held the weight of cheer, of judgment passed,

The crowd became a wave I sustained,

A stage for futures built to last.  

I sat where crime and power found disguise,

Faith, money, politics, all perched with me,

I felt their control behind closed doors,

A silent throne for tyranny.  

One leg gave way beneath me in the dust,

Discarded wood reflected lives ignored,

I knew my use had faded too,

A relic of times that moved forward.  

I bore the final weight where silence rules,

The condemned leaned heavy on my cold frame,

Death rested firm, and time stood still,

In quiet darkness, free from shame.  

I cradle years beneath my patient spine,

Near windows where the world is slow and soft,

I let their stories breathe at last,

In silent echoes and in lofts.  

From cradle low to throne, to street, to end,

I hold the shape of all who come to sit,

Whoever sits upon my weary frame,

Will shape the world in every bit.