Platform 2

A poem about the last moments of a suicidal man

There’s a guy on platform two.
With a black jacket and slicked back hair.
Tabbing on the end of a fag,
Mumbling how life just isn’t fair.

His hands are shaky,
And his behaviour is twitchy.
He looks back and forth,
At the train times, quite shifty.

From what I imagine,
Or at least from what I can see,
This guy is busy,
And there’s somewhere to be.
Maybe back to work,
Maybe back to home,
Maybe that’s the reason
Once again he hung up the phone.

As the tannoy system sounds,
Signalling the train is near.
He steps closer to the edge,
And that’s when I start to fear.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,
May this be my last word,
No matter how invalid!
No matter how absurd! Just know.
‘It’s Ironic really.
My choice. My control.
The regain of my voice.
The demise of my soul.’

Deaths presence persists!
The train’s brakes hiss,
And before I have time to stop him,
He feels the locomotive’s kiss.

He jumps of the platform,
With the flight of a crow,
Because nobody understands this guy.
And nobody’s prepared to know.

The End

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