The Emptiness

The Emptiness.

I climbed that thread bare carpet up the dusty stairs,
to a room where love once lived but now it is never home.
The bed unmade speaks its history in a loud and lonesome voice,
come lay on me and hold me.

The room is dark with curtains closed,
the floor strewn with must and mould.
The bed cries out and screams one more,
come lay on me and hold me.

Its gloom so dark and no shadows fall, no lovers now reside.
No touch or kiss on lips to skin,
no tension except from my heart within and the bed is still screaming,
come lay on me and hold me.

I see Jesus there on the headboard on his piece of wood
a witness to the lovers that practiced his preaching true.
He gazed upon the entwined tangle of their mortal human flesh,
and the bed it whimpered in delight.

I leave by the stairs that I had just climbed some time before,
I feel the brush of passing ghosts, the scent still in the air.
I glance out to the blazing light but I feel a tug to return,
but my mind is now empty.

The house it stands deserted on a leafy suburban lane,
no life in its soul
No love is ever made,
and the bed screams no more.