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?