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
The noose invites the sombre statue
Splinters bite uncooperative feet
The bracelet, now a necklace
A gentle touch on sable stone
Concrete arms by sides
Blood seeps out of cracks
Blood they colour grey, liquid cement
Leaden legs pulled when wood disappears
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: