Your blood spills haphazardly down my shirt,
as I hold your still warm body close to mine;
savoring the moments of your last breath,
as our souls and spirits inter-twine.

Your last words to me were garbled,
I could not make them out, I swear to God;
perhaps you cursed me with your dying breath,
but what the hell, that's not so odd.

It was not me that took your life,
it was a shot that came from over there,
the bullet pierced your skull and brain,
and I could only stand and stare.

Too late to save your tortured brow,
too late to stem the awesome bleeding;
but it's a mortician, not a paramedic,
that soon your being will be needing.

I ease you gently to the ground,
on top of leaves that now are falling;
with autumn's colors mixing with your blood,
and my eyes are full of tears- (I'm bawling).

You were to good to die at your young age,
you'd a life that was not yet half done;
but no one can determine their demise,
that fall beneath the dying sun.