While typing poems in a cyber café, a man beside me chats to a friend on Skype about a sailor freinds death, officially from suicide in a method the friends find hard to understand. Colin, R.I.P., friend of a stranger next to me in a cybercafe…
Sitting beside me, a man a friend ,
About a man unknown, who died by his own hand,
They don’t believe, think he could have been killed,
In a way his friends cannot understand
Someone washed their hands, the blood was his,
In the sink: but they wonder why,
Would one do as its though he had done,
Had he chosen by his own hand to die.
The method, reason, that this sailor man,
Ended his life. on whom others depended,
Makes no sense to his friends, think he was robbed,
And by anothers hands his life was ended.
And I eavesdropping, though I could not help but hear,
Them discuss how it did not make sense,
That their friend they are set to scatter at sea,
Say there is lots of reason for suspense…
A stranger, and to someone we all are the same
A prayer for him I silently say
And for those he left behind him when he died
I sitting, typing, the prayer silently pray…
And hope such an end I never see,
But live to die a happy old age,
Having outlived all my enemies and friends
And that my deaths notice on the page.
Recalls a man, who lived life as he chose
And got to live it best he can
I hope, as do we all, to have such an end
And not end up like this tragic man.