a chilly morning it was,
A cloudy dawn,
aromas of Silence dominated the air,
On a beach
A pile of freshly dug moist soil,
a bottle of whisky nearly empty sat by
beside it was a gun,
a Frozen corpes of a Child lay still
A man sat by,his clothes drenched due to the morning dew,
Rivers of tears trickled down on his troubled face,
In his hands was a pen to a Paper,
A Letter to Anyone;
he wrote,
“Go ahead and call me weak
go ahead and Call me Crazy,
they say everything has a braking point
Am at a point of no return now,
am past,far beyond persuation,
even my fear of Death can’t Save me now,
Maybe God really is Real
and if he is am probably going to Hell,”
he stops to takes a turn to sip from his bottle,
Stares at the Little deceased corpes,
Like a deadly Deasease a Surge of Sadness,pain,anger,disappointment aims for His chest,
He let’s out a painiful Sob,
he burries the Child,picks up the gun and aims for the Heart,
Moments later a bang !,then he lays as life slowly and painifully takes off..
Poet Rays?
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