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