Ok, honestly I don't even know what this is. Free verse? Possibly. I was half asleep when I wrote it.
You had blood on your face,
If it was really your face at all.
It oozed, like crimson oil from a lamp,
With fragile glass shattered and strewn across the unforgiving pavement.
They glued you back together under the roof you jumped from,
And added a new adornment-
A pretty new tag with your name on, like you were your own birthday present.
"Sherlock Holmes, 34, died 17/1/12, COD: boredom."
A package addressed to what lies beyond, the ultimate party.
Why wasn't I invited?
