Despair

Standing in the center,

Of his lonely room.

Nothing but his breathing,

Can be heard within the loom.

The curtains blow wide open,

The window is ajar.

The wind, it softly whispers,

It's begging him to stop.

This man, he is so quiet,

As he takes a sharpened knife,

Directs it toward his heaving chest,

Second thoughts about his life.

Slightly hesitating,

Peering down upon the blade,

He plunges it into his heart,

With shouts of agonizing pain.

He lies upon the floor,

Soaking in the crimson pool.

His last thought of regret,

And of seeing this world cruel.