The Most Bitter of Ironies

A daft, young man perched on the edge
Of tracks; cold steel and dullen gray,
Bereft, but dauntless, on that ledge,
Prostrate as Fate cast Life away.
As Life retired with crimson fire
The irksome tire and stigma stained,
It did succumb to Fate's desire,
A battle lost when Hope was slain.
He leapt across the cautious stripes,
And heard discordant engines growl.
He carved through him his own Last Rites,
And soon pronounced his final bow.
"But what if one could conquer strife?",
He mused through newly-gifted eyes.
Oh, what he'd give for his own life!
But shame; the train had just arrived.