Anatomy of Discarded

A chair collapses crying for the weight.
Its splinters pierce the silence of the floor.
The dents remain, a record of its fate,
Each mark a bruise from bodies held before.

A window aches when vision turns away.
Its glass is scarred by storms it once restrained.
The frame is warped, the hinges start to fray,
The view it kept is lost, the eyes have waned.

A book decays in hunger for a hand.
Its pages curl like tongues that beg for breath.
The spine breaks open, unable to withstand,
The story bleeds until it sleeps in death.

A clock endures the torture of a halt.
Its hands are frozen stiff in useless prayer.
Its gears grind dust, its body splits with fault,
Its mouth is mute, yet time still mocks it there.

The things we throw away do not forget.
Their deaths are slow, disfigured, drawn with care.
They keep the shapes of love, regret, and debt,
And rot in places we refuse to bear.