The creak of failure revealed his plan
as he walked on forevermore
with heart in head and head in hand.
He had not the handle, but just the door.
He could feel it's grip but see not it's hand,
he could taste it rest upon his neck.
For his head, it seemed, had come unmanned,
his mind, it seemed, was felled, in wreck.

"Ask not of me", he croaked, he tore,
"Ask not of me what, how or why.
Ask not of me, I do implore,
why I should sit and mean to cry.
For where these answers once were bore
I have but will and want to die."
His eyelids washed up to their shore
and cheeks were ravaged by their tide.

None should know the tale of he,
for never would he proffer it.
His memory washed out to the sea
as only it could be befit.