Suicide

[Guest]

[Pater]

Dark, cold sky lurking,
imagined, felt in orbit
of your mind. Unkind
the ink spilling over
simple words, a plea
to self, to someone, anyone,
yet too weak the will
that holds the pencil;
dank hair touches on the paper,
from a brow bowed level
with the bottom of the bottle.
Empty, painful as a cup of tea.
 
And the air closes in;
what is your sin?
The stripes of colour you think of,
electric gold only the ancients know.
Is a comfort of a kind,
it is your thought.
You will join them for you must,
all hope is the coinage of others
and silver is your gun.
A split-second rainbow shower,
and you are gone.

by Pater