My friends bedroom

Opening the door I enter in, respectfully,
The bed, still unmade from ‘that’ morning,
the CD’s by the hi-fi,
never to be played again,
If they were, they’d never sound the same,
in my friends bedroom.

The ashtray with it’s dimp’s,
Like a final request. (or, A final request?)
The clothes strewn across the floor,
the shoes, the jeans…the mess,
never to be worn again, lie,
in my friends bedroom.

The worn out guitar, standing lonely by the door,
waiting in vain, never to be strummed again.
No more future memories,
no rhythm nor rhyme.
And here I stand for the last time,
in my friends bedroom.

Downstairs, amidst the muffled sobs,
a soft voice drifts slowly upwards,
to my friends bedroom…
“Time to go”
Dressed in black, I leave and don’t look back,
at my friends bedroom.