With the cold wind cutting my face,
I glance down to the Thames far below;
It ebbs and flows, a sea of waste.
I hold tight to the iron bar,
Blades of ice begin to pour.
Behind me the sound of traffic,
Big Ben strikes a quarter to four.
From here, heaven feels so close;
My madness dosed with urge.
London sits majestic in its sphere,
As my feet inch off the verge.
Then suddenly a voice behind me:
“Hi my name is Mike.”
I pretend not to hear but he carries on,
“Please mate.. don’t take your life.”
Mute, I turn to see Mike frown and say.
“I also went down this route.”
Gazing at him, sorrow clouds his eyes,
This young man drenched in his Monday suit.
His voice is calm, mine sounds so weak;
As I speak, I begin to cry.
“i don’t know what i’m doing anymore.”
I was so certain I wanted to die.
But now looking into his placid eyes,
My reason seems in question.
He stands there soaked yet still bears a smile,
“Why take life to your depression?”
The rain has stopped and the dusk is drawing in.
“We could go for a coffee, talk it over?”
A police car draws up along the curb;
Mike holds out a hand, takes a step closer.
I take his hand, he holds mine tight,
“Life is about learning how to cope.”
I climb over the railings, supporting by Mike,
Around my shoulders he places his coat.
Three police charge out of their car,
“Are You Hurt?” “What’s Your Name?”
A list of questions, to which none I reply:
Collapsing before them broken, lame.
An ambulance approaches into which I am laid,
Mike has faded from sight.
Comatosed to the paramedics surrounding me,
Their faces bleach to white.
When I regain my senses, I find myself here,
In a silent hospital ward.
With its white washed walls and smell of disinfected
Here is where the suicidal ones must be stored.
‘Pill After Pill’