THE WIND

The dull, cold blue-grey metal chills the pale flesh of her hand.
The breeze dries her tear-dampened cheeks, and she mourns the loss of her only friend.
The only one who ever believed in her, the only one who ever cared;
she, too, is gone, and her friend wonders why she was even spared.
Numb from the pain, she cannot even think;
she becomes aware that she is standing on the brink.
She's about to take the plunge, do the deed, die the death.
"Life is not for me," are the last words ever to be laced upon her breath.
She glances down at her hands, so small and light.
That which they hold is the solution to her suffering and strife.
Not much time left now; her hands rise to her head;
everything seems so distant, and one last salty tear does she shed.
She whispers a desperate prayer and secures the note,
telling those who she loves that on her death not to dote.
The last thing she ever knows is a deafening report,
mindless, numbing pain, only a nanosecond short.
She thought it would be gone, she thought the suffering would end,
but now she knows that life is eternal, and never can she stop the bitter blowing wind.

I wanna go home!

Nah, I just wanna read more of this really cool poetry!