I can hear them all, crying, screaming...
scurrying rat-like on a sinking ship
shouting for saviour and redeeming
and the sound of blade on wrist skin rip.

Throwing their bodies out of living
little voices scraping through my head
tired of what they know is giving
seeking and desperate to be dead.

On cliffs edge, walking into nothing
apart from the trust in a written text
stepping off stage to end their breathing
hoping for parts in the scene that's next.

The world may be a stage of actors
puppets moving to a written word
myth, legend, and other such factors
fly them from cliffs like a wingless bird.

A bird lies dead on a broken stone
shattered from heaven's ruined tower
remains of a jump in to unknown
after the writer god, lost all power.