Slip

It was humid that spring,

out on that icy little bridge,

In choking of mist,

the day that I slipped.

Almost falling forever,

until something I grabbed,

seized the sensation of nothingness,

with the falling,

and the scaryness.

My hands were so cold,

at the beginning of spring,

for winter just passed,

the birds started to sing.

Around my head they went,

those pretty little birds,

which were the last thing I saw,

and the last thing I heard.