The Night Before the Rope

The Night Before the Rope

The corridor settles into silence.

Iron doors closed, the sound of keys long gone.

He sits on the narrow bed and watches the lantern light

fall across the stone like a pale square of day.

Somewhere outside these walls the night is moving.

Wind over roofs, clouds across the moon.

He tries to picture the sky, wide and cold,

something no bars can measure.

They said the word murder many times in the court.

The word followed him here like a shadow.

He has spoken the truth until it feels worn thin.

Still the walls keep their judgement.

A guard walks past once, slow boots on stone.

Their eyes meet for a brief moment.

Neither man speaks.

The night returns to its waiting.

He thinks about the morning that will come.

The door opening, the walk through the grey corridor.

A beam above, a rope waiting,

a crowd of quiet faces.

He whispers once more that he never did it.

The words rise into the dim ceiling.

There is no one here to hear them.

Only the slow passing of time.

The lantern burns lower as the hours move on.

He lies back, staring at the bars.

The prison breathes around him in deep silence,

holding the last hours of a life.

Morning comes without kindness.

They lead him forward, the rope is placed.

The floor falls away beneath his feet.

The body hangs still, and the life is gone.

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