Convicted

Within my grip is held the neck of youth,
Ever tightening the satanic noose.
The candles wax doth cling to skin,
As its flame does tend to burn and sting.
Yet amidst this striding turn of fear
Turmoil amounts to yearning
And yearning to tears.

Pertain to treason ye good souls
And caitiffs screams will remain unseen.
From the stocks and through repore
Strong men will sick, embracing lean.
They will call the names of those at heart:
The serving wench, the carters cart.

Aaron Leyshon