the palace of martyrs.

he could be praying,


his head bowed to rest

upon the notebook on

the desk, his arms spread,

crucified, to hang

off the edges, his black

jacket with the sleeves

pulled down, his thumbs

through holes to keep them

over his wrists.



the sounds you hear,

maybe he's singing or

simply speaking softly

to the people who

aren't there.



perhaps it's some hymn.

he could be crying.



this is the palace of martyrs,

a room to see them burning,

the pain reflected in their eyes,

all of them singing some shared

sorrow, of crosses to bear and

secrets that you only learn

through this slow suicide.



she will not come for him.

this is what it's like to watch someone die.