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My Execution

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There is something beautiful

about the way your hands

are curled so tightly.

It’s like the wood moulds itself

to your calluses -

groove for groove.

You have done this before

I see,

for when I lie my head down

it is caressed by fresh blood

that glints off your blade.

I had thought

perhaps you would be hooded -

hawk-like -

that a shadow

crossing your eyes

would be my barrier,

but no such luck:

better luck next time

(this is my last time).





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