Swearing, the man ran off the train,

As I, tried to stop him in vain,

His love was dead, lying in a pool of red,

And unconscious, spared from the pain.


Running, he threw himself onto the line,

As I, looked for a sign,

She was laying there, her head bare,

And unconscious, her blood liquid like wine.


Crying, he looked at her innocent face,

As I, pitied the man’s unfortunate case,

His tears begin to flow, caressing her metallic bow,

And quickly, he hugged her in a tight embrace.


Hesitantly, the man picked up the knife,

Contemplating on whether to take his own life,

His body shivered, but his love’s hand quivered.

He had killed himself, for his love who was conscious – his judgement was not right.




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