He died falling. Was it suicidal? We don't know. We can only guess. He was the silent type. The kind which only talks with his eyes. Or with his scratch of papers. Up in his room, every window is open, inviting us to look down to where he fell. Though he is still falling up to now. Maybe. He was a weird writer.
His room has many drawers, with lots of papers. An incinerator is at the corner, sitting on top of a desk like a jail guard, instead of a vase. Or a picture frame. His room was messy before he fell. Though he is still falling up to now, I guess. From what, we did not know. We could only guess, for we couldn't find his saved drafts. He was a weird writer, you know.
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PoetryOur hearts are brave as fire, minds gentle as earth, dreams are fluid as water, and our souls are as free as the wind. (Poetry and Prose) #2 of the end-live-begin trilogy.
