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diver
September 13, 2014
On the overpass, a suicide.
blood covered the electric city sign
and cars kept wizzed by,
with only the mountains standing still,
laying witness to the scene,
just the same
as they'd lay witness to the rain.
And the cars wizzed by,
a few wheels were stained with blood.
the body broke and broke again,
but it was fine.
whoever was once the thing that's dead,
surrendered himself
and shed these pains.
Only the drivers heard the crunch of bone.
the former occupant is
in heaven harping or hell howling,
or nowhere nothing.
what was in the body
and carried it from birth to death,
knows not
how brutally his form was beaten.
On the material earth,
nobody knew what to do
since it was clear nothing could be done.
so the cars wizzed by
in the early morning towards the old city,
which shined warmly in the new dawn,
with the clouds so gray and thin above
you'd swear they could be punctured by a shift in the wind,
but the sky never opened
all the way
that day.
It was a monday.
He slit his wrists twice
before he jumped.
he was just another guy,
someone you'd pass in the street.
buy a lighter from his mother at the market-bar.
shake hands at a party,
and nod and feel old and bored
as he told you about his school or his work.
He slit his wrists crudely,
with a bottle cap
and dove into the rock
rather than the water.
There is some defiance in that;
a final act of solid sorrow,
softened by bitterness,
he dove.
he was just
someone you might know.
And on the river under the bridge,
that soul once in the body
(whereabouts now unknown)
once considered jumping off,
a lonely kid,
still drunk from sunday,
smiled and yelped hello
in desperation
to an old, lonely man
fishing in the morning,
who was too surprised to speak.
the river laughed and rolled,
one passed the other,
and both were
like phantoms
like phantoms
in the morning,
And five miles a way
cars whizzed by
where a man chose to die.
© Anonymous
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