There was a chair that was defiled over the years
As the owner pressed his leather skin finger on its smooth light grain
It would blister and bleed
But of course the worry hole would continue to grow

As a boy when he got the chair
He looked at his parents with such despair
Asking "Why is my gift a chair"
While wishing for anything else

While still a boy sitting in the chair
One day he pressed
His smooth skin finger into the arm
Round and round the finger went for hours

The boy soon realized as some years passed
The chair was more than a chair
In a way it helped him cope
With his brothers death

The worry hole began to grow
Deeper and wider in that same smooth light grain
But one day the progress stopped
The boy, once a man, would not be found sitting in the chair

Instead his feet graced the arms
The same exact spot where he'd spend
Hours upon hours rubbing his finger into the grain
Was touched one last time

As his toe pushed off the chair
The last part of him to ever touch
glided across edge to edge
**The worry hole