Wooden rocking chair.

Slowly rocking in the breeze,
Enjoying the soft sun rays,
But change is coming.

Out comes the brush,
Followed by a can of paint.
Must cover that natural tone,
So that it will match the house.

Slowly the grain disappears,
Hidden beneath the stain.
Bright white pasted roughly,
Enwrapping the beautiful tan.

As it dries in the solar warmth,
Only it’s form hasn’t changed.
But it keeps a secret from the world,
Underneath it’s dressing it’s still brown.

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