As she sits there silently,
rocking back and forth
to and fro
in her wooden rocking chair.
Her eyes closed,
head pressed firmly into the patterned blue cushion,
pushed by her tense fists
that grip each sidearm
and threaten to leave marks
into the dullard rich grain
that smells like "childhood"
covered in dust mites.
Her feet propped up
on a matching rocking stool,
it's a set.
She used to lie flat on her stomach,
with her feet on the chair,
and her belly on the footrest,
backwards...I'm flying.
Now she's grown,
too awkward,
too sad.

He sits there
in an armchair
drooping with age
with memories sewn into its brown decor.
Smells like basement
and home.
Feels like creativity
when life wasn't so hard.
When its cushion and pillows held back the world
and a blanket provided a ceiling, that drooped,
until it plopped on his face
And he would climb out and fix it
because inside,
he was safe,
and happy.
Now,
his feet would be cold
and his head would break the roof
not that he has the imagination anymore
nor the time.

Sitting there,
with fingers dead
and withered
crackling dry,
voice depressed
heaving sighs with every sentence
and a general gloom about the room.
Perfectly still,
entirely quiet,
that stems from silence that is only apparent
after a presence has left
shed from a carcass growing cold
born anew to live a life till stretched and old
now a red neon sign lit up,
*"Vacancy."