Maybe the hooded man will chop off my head,
And it drops with the raindrops as I lie there –
Dead.
Or maybe my life he will spare,
And instead –
He’ll only strike a hair.
The wind blows.
My eyes close
And I turn white as a ghost.
Out of spite
I say my own last rite.
I’m still afraid
Of the days that I faced,
The fate that awaits
And the axe that is raised.
JD Poetry 