In a world, where November was darker,
Autumn brought us red leaves;
Scarlet,
Crimson,
His Blood.
A boy’s body is found,
Gashes separating skin.
And on the news,
We’d hear his pain;
Blood,
Ashes,
His life.
Nothing could be done anymore,
So would we suffer?
Would we mourn?
Or would we say it’s his fault. . .
For swallowing half the bottle?
Life,
Death,
His problem.
And perhaps I’d be stuck,
Wearing something black everyday,
Though I still think he was scum.
But I know I’d honor him everyday,
For in a world where black is darker,
The evil starts to seem light.
And when the bad tends to go worse,
That’s when our hearts reside.
Problem.
Solution.
His eternity.