The troubled whispers in the trees
An ice cold stare,
A stinging breeze.

That night they found
The damp crimson note
Tucked in the pocket
Of his favorite black coat.

I made that coat,
His mother said.
She covered her face,
And her hands turned it red.

She forgot to notice
Forgot to care
Just didn’t remember
Her son was there.

His once kindly face
was warped by a twisted grin
And his mother couldn’t help but wonder,
Where her son had been

And neatly scrawled with great care,
There was but a singe sentence there.
An unnoticed tear shone on the dead boys face.
"An extra bullet,
Just in case."