Cleaning Out Your Room
Your unwashed towel holds the hook behind
The door, for three weeks slumping there, unused.
A crumpled bottle, pillows laid askew -
Relics, untouchable. Iím blank, confused...
It can't be that you're really gone, for you
Breathe air into these breadcrumbs that I find!
You left these things, and so cannot be dead.
But realizing each morning when I wake,
The sunlight taunts your absence through the blind -
To dare imply the world is bright! How fake,
How trite. You were a beacon in my mind,
But youíve gone dark, and nothing can be said.
If you have any thoughts about this poem, John Masella
would be pleased to hear them