Yesteryear Fiction

The Second Lasts Forever
By Paul Tristram


As I stagger up the wooden steps
the crowds shout in sickening delight:
but I observe them all not one bit
I see only the guillotine in my sight.
The last rites are read solemnly
by a self-proclaiming servant of God,
as the raging crowds roar in unison.
“Hurry up and behead the thieving sod!”
The tight rope cuts into my wrists
as I struggle with my captive binds.
I watch with ever growing horror as
the guillotine blade slowly, upwards grinds.
I am forced down upon my dirty knees
then my tender neck is put in place;
I stare into the blood-stained basket
where death leaves its foul trace.
Suddenly I hear the crowd inhale
from above me I hear a catch being freed.
My thoughts clang and bang like a madman’s
this must surely be the taste of insanity.
As metal grates noisily upon metal
sparks fall down and singe my hair.
I can hear the whistling whirlwind
which will sever my earthly cares.
My life starts flashing before me
tears flood and blur my screaming eyes.
The background should be soft, forgiving music
but I hear only bloodthirsty cries.
I can now feel the shadow of the blade
as it approaches my un-defending skin.
Then death lays its cloak upon me
leaving behind only man’s barbaric sin.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.