Dirt Denim

Back to that old room once more,
that bitter smell, bitter sweet smell of self destruction.
For it lingers, lingers on that yellowing bed lining,
those same old drapes,
the pealing, painted walls to the cell,
that's where we have spent many nights of our childhood.
Five finger discounted drabs and dreads of jewels and colours,
colours and jewels, plastic pearls,fabric florals,
and we watched them slowly fade,
poorly rolled fag butts amongst the gardens autumn leaves,
and that same old denim jacket, the one with the dirty sleeves.
Dawn after dawn i watched you hang it,
so carefully hung upon that resident, rusty hook,
hooked violently, deep, down inside the rotting frame,
framed the foundations of an image, an emotion,
a description for a soon to be, distant memory.