He stares up at the clouds,

Down at the pebble road.

The notebook is so empty,

Yet still so full.

Purple. Blue. White. Grey.

Colors, colors all around.

The irony of such a sad day.

 

He looks down the tracks,

Concealed by morning fog.

I should call the police,

It’s not too late.

Black. Red. Brown. Red.

​Colors swirling in his head.

No, no, no, no!

 

Something is wrong,

They are so right.

I still have time.

So much precious, precious time.

 

​He runs down the tracks,

Crunching small stones.

Take me home,

Take me home,

Take me home.

 

(There may not always be someone to save you. Sometimes you have to save yourself. And that is okay. The world has not given up on you, you should not give up on the world. It is okay. You will be okay. You have so much time. So much precious, precious time.)