Waste of a suicide note

Efforts, futile and wasted, lying,
gasping,sucking in the last gasps of air.
Air so heavy with the cries of the men and women and the children
as they prayed to their gods,
redeemers of their souls,
awashed in the grime of human comfort.

31 days and 31 nights
spent in the wakeful hours of dawn
while the children dreamed,
the dogs screamed
the birds rustled
and the men leaned.
smiles agape on the men's faces
the women seemingly selfish.
untidiness let loose.
rampaging its way through blissful streets.

every day being a reason
every night being a reason
the seasons passed in utter anonymity
things were in place
life scattered all over them
protruding in places, rusted in others.
uncovering everything beneath the wishlist
meant people speaking their way into the space again

He could be the healer
He could the massacre
He could be the stranger
He could be the best friend
He could be wishes
He could be longing
He could be Fate
He could let go.

Could he?
Or would he float too?
Alive in the dead man's suit
trapped and suffocated.
writing out pieces of his life on trees and papers
remembrance mattered.

Someone had to notice.
One final sheet.
One final letter.
Written over 3 months
With hundreds of words
enveloped over themselves
taking his life at the last punctuation.
And then the day.
Papers in place
Butterflies scattered all over the room.
Holes in the wall
Eddie rocking the stage
Sleep.
Anger.
Happiness.
Guilt.
Perverseness.
Sadness.
took a moment to crash into the shore.
And then the tide started pulling away.
It pulled and pulled away.
Under overcast skies.
Stars faded into the clouds.
He tasted the salt.
He felt the breeze.
And two things suddenly happened.
Pitch blackness.
Stark whiteness.

They looked at him.
Some of them smiled in gratitude.
Some of them smiled in happiness.
Some of them smiled in relief.

He evolved. And the sheets burnt into oblivion.