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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · History · #2181841
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.
© Copyright 2019 A.S Kilosnikoft (arty.uly at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2181841