I don't mind about your background, that's only scenery On the path to where to your at now, your where you need to be, I care about the tapestry you weave for me, I care about the fantasies you dream for me, I care about the galaxies, you plan to be in deep with me, I care about realities, and how you make em flee from me I care about the galleries of futures, that you see with me That's where abouts I'll dare to shout, the meaning that you mean to me,

He stood minuscule On the pinnacle of South America's tallest tower, Stood one speck, too distant to view, At least for those without camera phones with a powerful zoom. Most, stood excited in crowds, for this magnified spectacle, Wishing for magnified spectacles with which to behold his expression. Imagining, visualising the slight dent of impression this living man Might make on the pavement. The faces are excited, Expecting acrobats and somersaults, as someone vaults From their existence and into internet immortality. It is a shopping centre, where the crowd stop to enter Passwords into I-phones with swift finger swipes, Here linger types of humans, many sides of racial and gender divides, Standing unified and looking to the sky, pretending to hide The fact that they are impatient. They have waited twenty minutes now, Is he going to jump? Is he going to put us out of our misery? Our misery? His misery might as well be placed on Saturn or Pluto For no one attempts to know the pattern of his true woes, It is too far, too distant to relate to. He lives in another dimension, And soon he will die, mentioned on twitter, maybe he will even trend. The end, when it comes. Is quick, a few gasps and hands sweep the air Tracing his fall in their phones telescope. I even hear a woman near by Tell a joke, saying come on mate. And the body hits the ground, With a horrific sound. But there is a sound far worse, and That is the camera flashes, the 2014 version of dust to dust Ashes to ashes. His spinal column cracked, his legs bent the wrong way - He poses. Exposed. Twitching toes. They crowd around, Closer looks. His eyes are open books telling a tragic tale, But the graphic scene brings traffic in streams and soon You cannot even see. What is the real tragedy? It is that we do not feel tragedy, We blog, we retweet, we condense it all to one post And we forget that one mans life was so beyond hope That to fall to his death, was better than to walk down the steps, And rejoin the people that stood poised and poisoned by An unvoiced enjoyment. I wonder what his name was. What is the real tragedy? It is that we do not feel tragedy That we do not heal tragedy That we do not shield tragedy, But construct film reel tragedy and watch the views rise, Somewhere this morning, someone is morning And their souls are not consoled by how many thumbs up The youtube video of the fall is scoring. And back home, somewhere a train will be delayed And commuters will be late for work, going straight berserk At the selfish suicide victim, who has died to spite them In their mind. Taking to twitter with bitter thoughts for followers We swallow this pill without question. What is the real tragedy? That we do not take one second. We do not take one second to contemplate, Where our common fate is heading, A society in free fall. What if your parents swung legs over window edges And with eyelids closed made pledges Would you want a crowd, wanting sport on the ground, While you talked them round While you talked them down What if it was you? I wonder what his name was I wonder what his pain was. The real tragedy is a concealed tragedy How can we heal, If we do not feel tragedy, We say, we're only human Its natural to squint at the glint of a lonely human Falling from the sun. Is it natural to see remade videos With GTA voiceovers and x-box parodies I don't think that it is. The real tragedy is that we do not feel tragedy The real tragedy is a concealed tragedy A human race who chase viewing rates, And spew a phrase in line with the newest craze, For a few days, might need to pursue a change A human race which does not care who has died, Who won't truly mind about the bluest tides of Tears you have cried. Might need to change. A human race who race to youtube a ruined life Might need to change, who am I, Not the person to decide, But we just might need to adjust a human race Who race to youtube a ruined life, Not minding who has died. Otherwise, that would be suicide.