a yellow breasted bird
on an old fruit tree
fluttered its wings as it left
what a sight to be seen for a man such as thee
on the tip of his very last breath
alas nothing grew in the garden again,
not a flower; not even a weed
nothing but a stone, and a wreck of a home
and the roots of an old fruit tree
but a day it would come, when as yellow as the sun, fell a feather from a little bird's breast
for above it did flutter; with no quiver or stutter
where the man and the tree lay at rest

suicide ₢c.seanmcgee