My friend, my consulate, my rest,
I’ve often found its warmth as my
soul was restless from its heavy
load each day.
Who sat here before me? Who wept
between each breath one took.
Thoughts so delicate, events so
painful, losses, gains, sorrows.
Only this bench can feel each
vibration from the person
sitting upon its weathered frame.
Van Gogh who listened with
one ear, Poe who bent back and
looked towards the heavens, Oscar
who delighted in frolic,
Hemingway who straightened
his back with much pain to
contemplate and digest each
word he pondered.
Sylvia lost in trance, stars were
her galaxy, depression her
mistress, oven door her epitaph.
Keats the one who sat and
mysteriously gained his footing
while penning another thought
Oh this bench cries out to my soul
Vincent let me heal the wounds and
please rest awhile and dream.
Let your mind wander and be among
others who have sat upon me
with the burdens of life.
© Copyright Vincent Moore 2012. All Rights Reserved.