He walked alone
down the lonely road
of which nobody had known

She, at a spry 23,
tried to forget all those bad memories which
gave her those bad dreams

He was tortured every night
She ran from every fright
but they both might do it tonight

A melancholy suicide
to rid the painful thoughts inside
One a pill of cyanide,
the other a bullet in his side

They both died

She went quick
He slowly limped, and
wished he knew why
She did it so soon

His legs finally folded
and as he fell,
he stole a glimpse of her cold eyes
and now he knows why