A purple sofa

An arrow aiming at the sofa, shining purple leather sofa.
It was new and bright and now it´s ruined for life.
That brilliant couch you can never sit on.
How deep can it´s cushions be.
A comfort you could feel just by seeing it.
In the rain somewhere now drenched.
In the sun somewhere bleached, beached like a whale.
The arrow points like a wind accusing.
The waxy surface of the purple sofa dropping off a waterfall.
No space in the house anymore, just a forgotten object.