A bitter night calling,
The window is open.
3rd floor and counting.
Blue eyes on fire,
With deadly desire.
He sits on the windowsill.
No one is home.
10 years of tears,
Form a pool on the sidewalk.
Calloused hands gripping,
Tense....and slipping.
He clings to the windowsill.
No one is home.
Indecision holds tight,
But fate falls, to sweaty palms.
The silent stars glisten,
Who's there to listen?
Hands slip from the windowsill.
No one is home.
Desperate fingers seek a hold,
Futile and falling.
3rd floor and counting
Musician and poet,
To the few who took notice.
There's blood on the windowsill.
No one is home. |
Submission Name: 3rd floor and counting
