There was a thin piece of fabric,
Grasping around the neck-anchored to the ground,
That kept a man from falling but without a sound.

White wings sat upon their back,
However was held back by fabric of red
That reminded of envy, greed, and dread.

Through the years of fighting for-
Well, it was now forgotten
As no fight was left and was left to rotten.

It was a troubling thought to lift off the ground
So he was left to reach out with hands
To imagine reaching something, anything, if just strands.

The thin piece of fabric wrapped around the neck
Became a thing of comfort, they realized
For they thought of a life where they couldn't, and wouldn't, be hurt was idealized.

Comfort became a jail
And as soon as the thought came to mind he was hindered alone and afraid
Only to find solace in his charade.

It was all over:
The sky had started to turn to grey
And it was but himself and what they all once had to say.

They once looked at him with pity and shame;
Grunting how such waste one has become to allow something so beautiful crumble
Even though they knew how in life he had stumbled.

'Why"?, he had questioned in his mind.
Is that all there is to this life-
To fall and fall again with much too many strife?

The fabric was as tight as can be
And through his pale, chapped lips passed a plea
To allow to start over again and be free.

But the sky was almost down to black
And the moment of change has left too quick
And his clock had meet it's last tick.

There he was laid a strewed
The fabric that was once red had turned blue
Had loosened around the dead mans neck now that he was ensue.