Soft wind whistles through slight wilting trees melting buildings of stones and stairways of leaves and from a high thistle throne wear I a harsh golden crown I tilt my pale head and look to the ground
Seventeen stories up and my subjects below hear the symphony play stuck in staccato each short stilted note striking down to my bones the concrete inviting ethereal groans
It's never the falling that kills you, my dear, it's always the landing, drawing so near my conscious abandoned, my thoughts torn apart do I leap from these heights to death do outsmart?
My balcony thoughts all awhirl in my head come to the conclusion I'm better off dead a king with no kingdom a queen with no quail I fly seventeen stories from my dark fairytale