Inspiration

The bench in the garden,

been sitting there for a while.
Insignificant.
Already crooked and bent.
Why does the Lichen wear it so?



The soot covered brink,
the fire place watches it's den.
It's seen moments shared.
Used to bring warmth to the room,
now watches them come and go.



Once meant for a queen.
Now hangs in a dusty closet.
Ribbons and bows worn.
Still radiant like the sun.
But chance of show has long passed.



The center of town,
Once looked upon by many,
gleaming in the sun.
Why so cold and faded now?
Why left alone in despair?



Its song is the time.
Going around and around.
Each warning, a chime.
Depended on by many.
Now still with neither song nor chime.