Deep high Matterhorn depths clear on top
Thunderous danger murdered under carriage.
What lies beneath?
A shattered corpse
A trapped siren?
If it calls it is a death knell,
A hymn hum to our sickened senses.
There is no glamour in a suicide watch,
No one will stop and applaud as you lay
You stay at the place,
Dancing dragonflies whisper and beckon forth
‘Come sway with me’.
You are rooted to a dank spot your fungi feet spun down.
You forget your own life.
‘Come sing with us’.
Dead wood fingers grace the murk,
The water is calling
Clear as grace.