at the final hour there he stands the boy
trembling skin like raindrops rippling a lake
the wind is shivering
there are no more leafs left to collect
and like a silver bullet from a gun
the moon drops in: that stranger from afar
unannounced
uncalled for
unoriginal but new nonetheless

the unspoken sounds still sound the best
when, not pronounced but still remembered,
they compose the music for the rest

there he stands the boy, it is the final hour
now he stretches out his arms, his shoulders
sculpted in the moonlight tell a story of love
lost, of tears never dared to be shed, he trembles
and bends his knees, carves with his marble like legs
through the darkness around him, just one moment
of silence before he dives in,
then,
the shattering bones, the breaking, the splash