I found him hanging there,

bloated and blue as the blood congealed at the bottom of his feet from gravity

Belt leather is surprisingly thick, leaving behind deep ligature marks

How long did  he dangle there, I wonder?

Maggots took more interest in him than anyone else did

Eating the remains of pain and agony ebbing from the climax

a finale with not a single person in attendance

Maybe God watched on with disinterest,

hearing all the forlorn prayers laden with anguish and begging for intervention

Beggars can’t be choosers,

even as second thoughts crossed his mind and legs spasmed in futile resistance.

Too late.

Always a second too late and now I’m burdened by the nightmares that scream if only. 


Pessimist Poet’s Words for Thought

“Early on, if I was alone two or three nights in a row, I’d start writing poems about suicide.” -Jack Nicholson