execution of a beggar

great and powerful hand
the one that swings down the axe
and uncovers the silver sword from its gaudy sheath


he takes a single step onto the scaffold
run slick with crimson rivers
and to his weak knees he falls
begging the mercy of the tight-lipped, closely-knit
pale face of the king


witfully and skillfully
with a quiver in his tone
the man who knows quite clearly
he has stepped valiantly up to die
causes a ruckus, a grand rumble
in no less than his words:


“sir, for i bear myself not guilty for the high treason
the one that you have so heavily weighted upon my skull
should the guilt of your people
overrun your gutters and your avenues
with crawling worms and rolling mice
those who come bearing picking fleas
those who catch at your putrid skin?


should you cover yourselves in roses
and lay poppies in your finest emerald crevices, women
of the village?
gentlemen, should i make the divine request for you to
unbuckle your belts at the thought of submission and indiscretion?
should you all bow down to a life of--”


and with his thought the executioner distracted
his mouth agape like the rest of the multitudes
his vision clouded by the glacial sting lanced into his ribs
by the porcelain face of the tyrant
with a heavy arm he raised the blade
and brought it above his head


the glint of the sunlight tangled in the shine and
came down to meet the flesh
precisely at the nape of the nuque
of the man who knelt bound
bone snapped and skin severed
and forth from the falls
came the catalyst for the uproar