The air whispers its hymns of remorse in the ears,
Of a young lad,
Atop a steeple,
Trembling in fear.

An awful way it is to live all alone,
With no kin,
With no acquaintances,
Exhaustion is prone.

The slip of his tongue sets a chain of events,
That would lead him to this,
To take the step,
For mistakes that he resents.

Falling,
Fallin-,
Falli-
Fall.