I rise, slowly, in the grey morning
light. I raise my eyes, and seeking,
sought; the grey light of dawn,
filters down, between the eaves.
Dressing, clad in the days grey skin,
I step down the covered stairs, soft
as a whisper, born upon the breeze,
for the fear of detection, and the desire
to be gone.
Opening the sighing door, I pause, and
turn, hand still grasping the reluctant
handle, as I see her, beautiful, in her night
gown, her black hair streaming, her eyes,
rimmed with red.
She looks at me, and there is nothing in her
eyes, but sadness, regret, and resignation. She
turns away, and I leave, closing the door
behind me.
I drive to work, sitting behind the wheel,
the grey sky empty, and the black road
full. I look to my right, to my left, and
behind. Everywhere I look, I see the same.
Black suit, grey tie, short-cut hair, and
empty eyes.
I close mine. Open them. The world seems
no different; no change meets my gaze.
only cars and commuters, going forward to
slave.
I look down, up again. My hand reaches, finds
the cold, smooth handle. I raise it. My eyes
close. I think of her, my wife, as the cold end
of the long dull rod touches my temple. A tear
wells slowly in my eye, to fall, softly along my
face. I don't brush it away.
My fingers tremble. They don't know their duty.
My hands shake, as tear follows tear, drifting slowly,
down the lines of my face, careworn, in the line of
pointless duty. My fingers steady, my hands grow still.
It is the breaking point..my mind is blank, as I pull
the trigger...red roses fill my head, as I fall, forward
against the wheel, and the world goes dark.
The father of a friend of mine shot himself, while caught in the crawl of traffic, as his fellow commuters strove to begin their work day. This, is for him.
