Poor John Watson was left to cry.

Poor John Watson was left to die

Alone in his thoughts and lost in his mind.

With an empty hand and worthless time,

He scavenged his brain lookings for signs,

Searching for clues, and hopeless sighs.

All to answer the unanswerable “Why?”

He pictured his eyes

And all the feelings they tried to hide.

He never thought the gap was so wide

Between them and never imagined he’d find

Him on the sidewalk. He had searched for signs:

A heart beat, a tremble, the breath of a lie.

Maybe it’s a nightmare stuck in disguise

Of reality. Maybe there’s just enough time

To wake up and sift through his thoughts and deny.

But alone he will rise

And every demon he is soon to find

Will draw his thoughts to the gun at his side.

He’ll question his morals, “What’s wrong? What’s right?

To carry on empty or puncture my mind?”

Maybe if his skin breaks and the blood runs dry

He’ll find some relief on this sleepless night.

Oh, what he would give to have his friend by his side.

Poor John Watson was left to cry.