He was sitting near the creek
Where his friend had passed.
The sad, soulful, sleepyhead.
Where he had held the gun,
Placed it in his mouth,
And shot himself.
Snuffing out his very life
Like one would a candle.
Now Melchior had been there before
To mourn,
To grieve,
To think of what could have been
Instead of what was.
But that wasn't what he was there for
This brisk, blustery night.
He wasn't there to mourn.
He was there with something else this time,
Other than the clothes on his back.
He was holding a shining silver blade.
Glistening and glinting in the darkness.
This was the final step.
He was already dead;
Nothing could save him.
And as he raised the knife to his chest,
He thought of Moritz,
And of Wendla
For just a moment
Before he plunged the blade into his chest.
Blood pouring out of the wound -
Dripping out of his mouth -
Soaking through his thick layers of clothing.
Until his body twitched a few times.
He coughed once of twice.
Shivered,
And collapsed
Into the pool of blood
Beneath him.
And he was still.