Blood Onto His Melodica
In a pond of your own blood.
You laid there,
till your life flashed hitherto your eyes.
You laid there,
till the last drop of your blood.
Did you think of me?
Roaming the earth barefooted.
I'm overshadowed by constant screams in my head echo through my entire body, seems as though they are heard by none, only I.
You laid there.
So, I did not and could not say goodbye.
Whether if or not I was prerogative enough, would this have occurred any dissimilar?
No tall story, no falsification and no invention of mine, I remain fond of the time we whispered quietly in an intricate but unvoiced séance.
Trigger pulled, that bullet hit you.
You effortlessly laid there.
Blood dripped, blood dropped.
Eyes shut, heart stopped.
Life. . . . Gone.
Your blood onto the piano, or rather,
Your blood onto Me,
Because I was your Melodica.
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