By Elliot Pope
Two stand at the edge of a roof.
One tells the other to jump,
everything will be simpler if you jump.
They stare down at the cracked pavement,
patched and faded by years of traffic.
Will their blood blossom red on the black?
Will it be scrubbed up tomorrow?
Or will it linger, seeping into the
c r a c k s,
soaking into the dirt beneath.
Will it water the weeds suffocating under the surface
and give them a chance to
for a change.
Will the ending of their life
They tell this to the other,
but they just scoff.
Why muse over meaningless things?
There is no sun today,
just the midnight clouds from the fires
smothering the city in ash and heat.
Do it, they think.
What is there to live for?
Life has only become cracked and broken.
You can be freed now.
But… a voice whispers with the wind,
if you go, they will win.
Do you want them to win?
What a coward,
the other hisses.
One stands at the edge of a roof.
They watch the other,
and think about cleaning the blood
from the pavement below.
No flowers will grow today.