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His soul stretch high across the sky,
Like power lines, dangerous and too real.
His secrets layed out on the table,
For the whole world to steal.
His death printed in the papers,
Supposdly a trajec accident of miscontent.
His last breaths taken, cold and quick,
A simple message that he desperatly sent.
His life flashing by in his mind,
Tears gathered in his eyes.
His crimson blood seeping in the cracks,
Leaving obvious evidence of his lies.
His bloody gun resting in his heand,
Giving perfect reason to expect his crime.
His suicide on the thirteenth floor,
The apartment where he spent his time.
His funeral not a person attended,
Except a compassionate priest and church bells.
His deep and somewhat welcoming grave,
Where the falling rain bid him his farewells.