That old coat, the one you wore,
You wore in laughter,
Drenched in rain, cold water pouring, droplets of pearls,
Glistening in light of the single star, the one,
Which didn’t die yet.
That old coat, which sits by the fire,
A hearth of orange, now only black,
Devoid of colour, life, warmth,
A dead tinderbox, of passed emotion,
And happy feeling, all turned grey.
That old coat, frayed, torn.
The brown leather faded in patches,
Patches of memory, think back,
To happy days once before,
That old grey coat, you used to wear.
That old grey coat, stained in mud,
Undistinguished in the rough hide,
And broken seams, rough stitches,
Coarse repairs to hide the scars,
Of just been worn out.
That old coat,
You used to wear,
The one which was a part of you,
Sitting on a rusty peg, holding memories, so carefully.
The snap. The drop. The thud. The coat falls.
And the thoughts shatter again.
The coat was one which belonged to my great uncle John (Who I took my middle name from) when he went and enlisted in the army during WWII. He left it on the peg the day he went and enlisted and never returned for it because he died fighting for our freedom. It needed a story.
