The Jumper
On a twelve inch ledge
On the twenty-seventh floor
He tried to sort out his life.
From his high school days
Thru his college days
To the woman he called his wife.
His dreams had been many
But his prospects were few,
His life at best second rate.
His dreams died away,
His prospects grew worse,
He resigned himself to his fate.
The crowd gathered round
To stare up at the man
And held their collective breath.
He spread out his arms,
Reached up for the sky,
And plummeted down to his death.
Post Edited (09-19-03 19:58)
Simple and okay. But I guess there'll be less responses than to the Sound of Thunder.
siren
P.S.: Hmm...you could do better, but I can't work out how.
Silent Siren, Thanks for the read. You may be right about the poem, and probably are. Written in 1992. jhs
I liked it and it was cool i admit the title could use a changing i mean it works and dont work i dunno im just crazy
"To write something, you have to risk making a fool of yourself." Anne Rice
Nolon, Glad you liked it, you're right about the title. I wrote it after the Woody Harrelson movie came out-White Men Can't Jump, and it was stuck in my head for some unknown reason. jhs