• kwabenagyane

Hangman

With a life on the line

Simple words meld, a lifeline

For when power is given to the tongue

Words become sentences.

Above their heads,

Rules written clearly with air

And found on each taken breath:

Eight chances. Eight sounds.

In front, dressed in dry mahogany

Heavy rope hugging its wooden wrist

Is Death, waiting.

A soot-stained silhouette stands

Displayed to the the crowd

Dark dust settles on eyelids, sabotaged sight


The third vowel is blown out, a random choice

Occupying the first chair

At the sight of a rightful owner

Words are flung

Vocal slaps

Ignorant

The noose invites the sombre statue

Splinters bite uncooperative feet

Imposter

Imbecile

The bracelet, now a necklace

A gentle touch on sable stone

Frozen bust

Indolent

Concrete arms by sides

Blood seeps out of cracks

Blood they colour grey, liquid cement

Indecent

Infernal

Leaden legs pulled when wood disappears

Inhumane

Inferior

He is choked. He.

He is claimed. He.

Even in death, they buried him in a disguise

For flesh and bone carries more weight than stone

So in their haste, none thought of the word:

Innocent

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