In the lines of the wood's grain
Green paint is indelible.
The chair has been stripped,
Forced to shed its layers
Of white, cream and green, scrubbed
Clean of all clothing
Then varnish applied.

It is near its natural colour now
Rising gold and pale
With traces of its past
Life stamped in its
Living grooves
That remain, like scars
On skin.  I know

Where this chair has been -
It has been colour-gathering,
Engaged in a layering and
A lacquering of self so 
Strong and inborne
That they never can be
Scraped, erased.
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