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If Only This Bench Could Talk
Forsaken... Forgotten by Artasylum

Soft whispers from sweet voices
haunt this tattered park.
Mingling with the swirling leaves;
they'd enjoy one last dance before dark.
 
This old wrought iron retreat
once enticed lovers to sit.
Seduced by its sculpted allure,,,
they'd nestle together and kiss.
 
Once a beautifully sculpted pulpit of refuge,
absorbed decades of heartbreak and tears.
A confessional with no dispensation...
never betrayed its parishioners' fears.
 
Parades of children hid beneath
its tired, old splintery seat.
Stealthily they'd play hide-n-seek;
victims above clueless they were ‘it’.
 
The down-trodden and strollers once
lingered to gobble-down their lunch. 
They’ve now forsaken this vintage throne
for shinier, benches unknown.

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