He walks along a deserted beach,
by Andrew T
A lone vagrant. A moon shines,
His tattered spirit stumbles.
No-one read the signs
His bottles smashes silently
On an ice-cold sand floor
While he loads his new pistol.
He's only twenty-four
He sobs silently, points it at his head
And thinks of what led to this end
He is too weak, cannot go on
In an impersonal world he has no friend
His gun drws circles in cold night air
His finger twitches as his hazy mind
Loses it's grip. And he looks down on
Himself, and reality is not kind.
He feels nothing in Heaven's Hall,
And he realises Hell is not to feel at all.