The Gallows

 As the warm sunshine begins to melt through your cold skin cells, as you have just woken up into another day of some wierd mixture of abstinence and indulgence, as you instinctively try to let go of yourself when you look beyond the edge of the rooftop for no particular reason, as it seemed like the most natural thing to do, like eating breakfast or loving without words, as you stretch yourself beyond the limits of everyday reason, as something stirs within your destiny that secretly tells you to revel in ideas of non-being and ideas of a gun, for guns are the quickest and easiest way out of the maze, as you hit a new low back then every day but now on some hourly basis, as the dogs scream in the middle of the night only to remind themselves that they exist in this world bereft of sense, as you write, as you write your way out of you and into you, and there are colder places on earth than your words, probably your half-formed thoughts also, as you dig deeper into the coldest of those places and simultaneously try to burn yourself into the despairing blues of fire exuded by people around you, as you cease to exist each moment inside your head and suddenly you are needed but not loved, as you are needed by yourself to disappear and appear again under colourful lights in an empty room... Do remember to turn those lights off before going to sleep.