It echoes in the stillness,
A man's final words,
The impact of the passing,
Can still be heard.
It echoes in the quiet places,
People whisper it could be better,
With insincere faces,
And the echo comes again.
Still as death,
It looms in the night,
One might take a breath,
And have it stolen away.
It never occurred to them
That he might not be okay,
That this could have all stopped,
And he'd be here today.
There are so many things that could be better,
The echo would cry out,
Then life would begin,
And we could all go about.
A poem on the effects of suicide.
