The Empty Briefcase
He could not take any more, he took his own life.
The Empty Briefcase
He wakes at six, still wears the tie,
kisses her cheek, tells the same old lie.
“Busy day ahead,” he says with a grin,
but his eyes look tired, too thin.
The office is gone, his desk replaced,
by silence and streets he aimlessly paced.
Coffee in parks, lunch on a bench,
shame wrapped tight like a funeral trench.
He comes home at five, just like before,
hangs up his coat, walks through the door.
She talks of bills, of plans, of life,
he nods along—avoiding the knife.
Weeks go by, the lie grows deep,
he counts each hour, loses sleep.
That briefcase holds nothing,
but dread and despair,
a hollow shell—no papers there.
Then one grey morning, she wakes alone,
no footsteps, no keys, no ringing phone.
By the door sits the case, cold and still—
empty, like the space
he could no longer fill.
The news that night reported with dread,
Sacked office worker found in the river,
pronounced dead.
He finally could take no more pretence
R.I.P.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (4)
I related to this Marie. There was a time when I was out of work that I went out and sat on a bench or wandered around in my suit and tie for most of the day because I could not deal with not having a routine.
This is just way too sad, but it is common in this day and age of society at work. Good job.
This touched me deeply—so raw and hauntingly beautiful. You captured silent struggles with such tenderness and truth. A quiet, aching masterpiece.
I Love The Empty Briefcase