the hot ropes
in the gallows
are still swinging, stretched
fast and tight,
the hinges of the trap door
creaks.
shoes shuffle,
hardly a soul
is breathing.
no one is happy
about the killing,
revenge being
neither sweet
or bitter sweet, but
cold
and without satisfaction.
it seems like
the right thing to do.
a life
for a life.
and yet somehow something
isn't right.
we'll dwell on it
until we too die.
at some point eating
our own last meal,
saying our own last words,
giving our own
confession
before falling
through and through
a door with no bottom
in sight.
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