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The Clothes on the Bedroom Floor

 Clothes litter the bedroom floor,
Memories of a lover's heart ripped and thrown,
Fading like the will to knock on the door
And pick up the pieces that have now been outgrown.

The blue sweater truly suited you -
White stripes from a country not my own...
It saw the sun rise over a ballsy victory or two
Before sinking to the floor, heavier than stone.

On the same stained floor lie clothes of the night,
Once shared with love amongst you and I
Till you lost your drive and all strength to fight
While I abandoned the energy to cry.

The cargo pants were his to rock,
Dotted with pockets to carry his smile...
Now it lies lopsided, contorted like a keyless lock,
Only to be stepped on with scorn every once in a while.

And there - a friend's jade jerkin, a union's sign,
Both still thriving and alive,
Though now I can call neither of them mine -
Too tired to buzz with the busy bees of the hive.

That black jacket was a gift from the dead
To provide an illusion of warmth in a land of snow and rain,
A reminder of whispered thoughts never said,
A burning echo of a frigid pain.

The clothes bleed colour while the memories bleed life,
The floor a murky masterpiece of crimson, scarlet and red,
All a prologue to: "The Hunt for the Kitchen Knife"
To smother the silent screams of lost souls thirsting to be dead.

So ends the account of him, you and me -
Three doomed voices destined to share a grave
With the past, the present and the tragedies that be,
And the clothes on the bedroom floor that none could save.

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