An eerie silence echoes through the room, 

The calm before the ravenous storm. 

He sits in the corner by the fireplace, 

He is quiet and lost in myriad musings. 


There is a cold wind blowing through, 

He shivers, the only semblance of emotion. 

Bottles upon bottles lie scattered across, 

A cigarette in hand, awaiting answers. 


He is doused in alcohol, 

He reeked of smoke and cheap wine. 

The slow, haunting ‘Atmosphere’ riffs abound, 

He sits with a knife in hand, in contemplation. 


He has borrowed words from million places, 

Just to phrase this life lost in misery. 

He knows not what has become of him, 

To be lost in such prolonged, profound agony. 


Belching and grimacing he is disturbed, 

Periodically twitching to the thought that come flushing. 

He has sought for respite, thought to live, 

But seldom has he been confounded by such loneliness. 


The sense of dependency, an unrequited love, 

A sense of wayward life and no solution. 

He is but absolved of having to go on, 

He is become the person he despises, the person he loathes. 


The music reaches its crescendo, 

He is convoluted at the idea of death. 

Leaving notes in his journals to his dear ones, 

Farewell to those who’ve tried or even pretended to try. 


A slight grin surfaces upon his cheeks, 

His dimples shown in long, rotting sadness. 

He stumbles upon all his memories, 

The good, the bad and the ugly for one last time. 


One look upon the glazing blade, 

He wistfully gulps down coarse whiskey. 

Lying on the floor, blood soaked and pale, 

As the sweet lull of music fades to black. 


I stand by that fireplace,

Where he lay motionless, yet in peace. 

The carpets are still blood-soaked, 

A satisfaction in watching him die.