The first night I swore it moved, The chair in the corner of my room.

Just a little, there in the darkness, As the Willow’s hangings flowed in winds, And rickety Oak branches tapped the window.

Just a little it moved, windows shut, Just crept an inch, if that, forward.

The silence of the house, alien, As my husband had just died; car crashed, And his absence left me haunted by shadows.

The second night I knew it moved, The chair in the corner of my room.

Just a wooden, broken, seat,

As useless now as it was when feeding halted, And our child stilled in my empty, hollow arms.

Just a few months she lived, if that, Just a glimmer in my dreadful life.

The silence of the house rang,

As loud as any orchestra it belted my poor mind, And I never lived again, to my husband’s horror!

The third night I waited as it moved, The chair in the corner of my room.

Just a reminder of a life never lived, As I succumbed to sorrow, abandoning love, And killing my husband day after day after day.

Just a few months ago they died,

Just my daughter and my loving wife!

The chair she sat in, I now sit in every night,

As my family succumbed to awful consumption,

And I wait to join them, hoping they can sense me, And I wait every night to join them, Creaking in her feeding chair.