suicide default

Nothing was wrong with the leap;
It was made according to plan,
But the design was interrupted
By the abruptness of the plunge.
Maybe… there was a change of heart
Somewhere in midair.
Marked by a yelp of despair.
The sound of his pain bounces like a jax ball
From the walls of his cylindrical doom.
His every cry echoes like voices on St. Hilda’s square.
Each feeble movement, in his watery tomb,
Vibrates like that old proverbial sound of the bongo.
He lie there; a bundle of pain,
And regret he didn’t measure the depth to his death.
The silence pinched the minute there,
While the little dirty-face angel argued his state elsewhere.
St. Hilda’s Memorial, the place of his death.
Under soft cotton covers he stole his last breath.