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If he has turned from being
 
A young man with a heart,
 
To a plastic bag and a belt
 
Snapped tight around a red neck,
 
Maybe all the late nights
 
And smiling men
 
Don't matter that much, after all.
 
And I wonder: did the plastic bag
 
Contract and expand with his
 
Last failing breaths -
 
Did his body provoke his reasons
 
And throb and shudder, as if screaming -
 
Did he understand what he was doing
 
Did he recognise the disease -
 
    Yet no answers ever come.