The scented paper floated down to the engraved table.

"Dear mom, I'm sorry. . .," was the dark overtone of this fable.

The yellowed lace curtains danced the dance in the cool breeze.

The dance of the despair that came breathing down his neck;

His senses and morality this dance did seize.

The birds sang their eternal lullabye.

Fabric rustling,

paper crackling,

his only witness --

a small house fly.

The boy walked over to the torn, tattered couch.

Sitting down -- dust rising -- he pulled the .45 out of its pouch.

The transparent tears came pouring out --

his face chaffed from his desolate and exhausted fount.

The .45 he put to his face.

Bitter oil and powder he could taste.

A moment of courage,

a squeeze of the finger.

No,

his soul did not linger.

As the bullet crushed his features,

he went to a place of tortured creatures.

He felt unrelenting suffering and pain.

Enough to drive him truly insane.

Oh! How he missed his mother's touch,

his sisters' voice.

He knew he had made a tragic choice.

He never meant to make them so sad;

For he realized,

his life wasn't all that bad.



By: Roy Quebedeaux