Am I Going To Be Executed

“Am I going to be executed?” the prisoner asked the balding old priest, as he leant across the warped wooden shelf; lifting the tattered bible, like a ticking, weary, bomb. “Yes my son, you will die here away from family, friends and familiar trends; alone with eyes shot with blood and sand, it will not be pretty but it will be quick,” “And who will be there, in blood and sand with me by my side?” “I will watch you fall and die, and anoint your body in the blood and sand,” “And who will deathly triggers pull?” “My son, I am not sure; a line of soldiers, with caps and boots, is all I know,” And when the deed was done, and blood and sand, stuck to the prisoner’s brow, The priest, anointed the lifeless corpse, then stood up, and mopped his face, To die for yes, a major crime, and he a part in this disgrace, was far too much To bare, and for line of soldiers, caps and boots: he really didn’t care.