It sat empty, the armchair
Black, bold, scuffed
Home to the ghost of a man
He used to fish,
He used to walk,
He used to laugh,
He used to be
Then he didn’t
It began in his feet,
Tickling his toes and grabbing at his ankles,
A cruel, curling pain
It gave him a crutch,
Then a wheelchair,
Then a prison,
Forged of his own flesh and blood
It reached his arms,
Numbing his fingers and knotting his elbows,
The deep, devouring pain
It stole his steely grip,
His bear hug,
His kind caress,
He could no longer embrace his daughter
It squeezed the rest of his body
His lungs became a bag and a tube,
His breath became a beep,
His heart became a useless pink lump,
His voice became an automated hum
The grim, gnawing pain
It took his mind
And then it took him away
So, it sat empty, the armchair
Black, bold, scuffed
Once home to a family man
A husband,
A father,
A son,
An uncle
Gone
But never not loved
