Battered and worn
And your blue chequered shirt
With the pocket half-torn,
Lays empty and crumpled at
The foot of your bed;
Has laid there since the morning,
The morning you left.
Your gold ring doesn’t glisten,
And your silver chain doesn’t shine
And although everyone woke for the mourn
And left soft white lilies, forgotten and forlorn,
It’s the photos that let me know you were mine.
Your tired red boots still sit battered and worn,
But it’s the long cold silence that lets me know that you’re gone.
Created: Jun 08, 2010Document Media