Suicide in the shadows,
waiting for a poor man,
creeping over his shoulder,
a dark new day.

Wrapped around his neck,
words can't escape his dry throat,
holding him down,
more bills and car loans.

Under a microscope in the sun,
burning himself.
Holding the lighter to his palm,
burning himself.

It's something warm he says,
when the days are cold and the nights long.
The phone rings in the corner,
playing that bittersweet and intimidating song.

So he dances in the morning sun,
as it creeps through his blinds,
his legs shake and scramble.