I softly knocked upon a door
No longer mine for knocking,
And saw within the empty room
A chair still gently rocking
It sat there, neat within its dust,
More lonely now, than squalid;
For what it held had gone away
Where few now can recall it
For love, it whispers in the dark,
While hate blows trumpets often;
We box ourselves into such lives
As just lead to a coffin
But I have known this rocking chair
When all it was, was quiet;
Away from all the growth of lies
That make our daily riot
I knocked, and entered, stood and looked,
The dust it tumbled in the sun,
And maybe I gave up, back then,
But maybe – all of that is done
For love can heal when all else fails.
Those years go by, and bad ones;
We comfort how and where we can
The lonely and the sad ones
For every dream and every heart;
For voices: singing, talking —
Can still live on within such rooms
Like chairs that just
Keep rocking