Authors defence: A incoherent poem. No idea where it came from. About Christian's grief... not that dark, I hope. cringe


Toulouse listens through the floorboards.

He hears the tears
Rolling down his paling cheeks
The slurred words of misery
Stumbling from his mouth
The fitfulness of his sleep
The crash as he rolls onto the floor
His fists as he hammers against the walls
Footsteps tapping, tapping, tapping
Back and forth across the tiny living room
Bottles breaking on the streets below
After missing the wall
And sailing through the windowpane

Toulouse peers through the hole in the ceiling

He sees the pages on the table
Stained and soaked
By spilt glasses of absinthe
The bed sheets decorated red
From the contents of his open veins
The floorboards moulded with candle wax
With burnt black patches
That almost set the place alight
He sees the sweat and tears
Intermingling upon his face
Eyes and voice so wasted
By tears and screams and cigarettes

Toulouse can see and hear him from above

He hears the barrel click shut
He sees the empty man count to three
He hears his last breath
He sees him drop to the ground
And then all the is to hear is
Silence
And all there is to see is
Nothing