There's a closet in the house,
where no one will go.
Filled up boxes sit there,
the contents we know.
Behind the door,
in the shadow filled gloom,
are the remnants of a life
that ended too soon.
The clothes that he wore,
his now obsolete phone.
Letters, his toolbox,
things that he owned.
Sit behind the door
where memories gather.
Why keep things like this?
Do they really matter?
Yet behind the door,
his scent still lingers.
Knowing these things
were touched by his fingers.
Open a box and the
clothes that he wore,
bring memories back
of how he was before.
Until God decided to call him home,
leaving those who loved him
grief filled and alone.
The songs he wrote,
the guitar he played,
amazed us all with
the music he made.
It was captured on tape
and for that we are glad.
Though listening to it now
makes us feel sad.
Behind the door,
are boxes stacked neat.
Opened up now and then,
with a heart bittersweet.
Though his twinkling eyes
and his smile are gone,
we still feel his spirit
and know he lives on.
There's a closet in the house,
where no one will go.
Filled up boxes sit there,
the contents we know.
Behind the door,
in the shadow filled gloom,
are the remnants of a life
that ended too soon.
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