A poem about what executioners have to deal with post-execution and the people they take.
My name is Jack.
I am waiting for the old pyre,
accused of sorcery by a priest.
My name is Sambino.
I am waiting to be hung,
for the murder of a sheriff's son.
My name is Paige.
I am waiting for the cartridge to fly,
accused by the Krauts of hiding a plague.
My name is Ramsey.
I am waiting for the sparks to fry my hide,
for killing my dying bride.
My name is Frank.
I am waiting for the poison to flow,
for war crimes in the ugly war.
My name is Cameron.
I am waiting for fifty years in the slammer,
for firing a round into a young man’s nana.
My name is _____________.
I am putting the gun up to my head,
for all of those I had to kill whether it was wrong or right.
The images stuck in the executioner's heads... cease, only when they are dead.