The man that bumped his head,
The man that didn’t slip,
The man that jumped,
As if almost peacefully,
Silently he led.
Blood ran down the white lily,
Standing out like water in a desert;
Out of place.
Knowing this they rush to wash away any sign of their existence;
If not for the newly painted walls,
Coated a beautiful crimson;
Splashed instead of brushed,
He could’ve been mistaken for sleeping.
But of course he wasn’t sleeping,
He had had too much of sleeping.
That’s what had pierced his skin every night,
That’s what had pushed his feet off the ledge,
That’s why he had jumped.
When he jumped,
He finally felt alive.
But not for long.