The desk sat on the edge of the woods;
The pretty wood on top was weathered;
The shine had left the wood;
The wood wanted to splinter under my hand.
The drawers were shut and locked
At the back of the desk,
The burnt  orange color browning with time.
The corners pushed out as once it had
In the office with drawers.
The piece that rolled out for signatures
Hung loosely at the front.
Mourning all undone
On the heavy top of the old desk.
Perhaps to repair and start again.
Led to the edge of the forest by ghosts;
The spirits pulling at me to this old spot.
To let me see what lay waste.
Pained by the failure.
The missed opportunity of what could have been.
The work undone.
The skill let gone.
The thought set free to rain and sun.