The axeman cometh,
his feet thudding the steps
to the summit,
where he will take your breath
along with your head
and lead you on your pathway to death.
The executioner calls,
usually just as darkness falls.
His axe dragged along behind,
the scraping sound grinds
into your terrified bones,
like nails down a tombstone.
Years of blood stain the axe,
the lives it has ended cling to its surface
in a grimace of red,
the stories of the dead
embedded into its razor edge.
Lost to its sharpened blade.
The man with the axe,
dressed head to toe in black
because blood stains lighter clothes.
He swings
and down through your neck it goes.
Blood flows.
Red.
It weeps out,
no tears shed this time,
not by the axeman
he's already on to the next in line.
Thanks for reading
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Peace, Love and Poetry
Kyle
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