Muted Chatter
He walked solemnly toward the green door,
dirty water covered the floor,
stench of burnt skin in the air,
greeted by a priest with gray hair,
but he still showed no fear,
a mix crowd of men and women came to watch him die,
he had no care,
as their faces filled with tears,
and his death may regain their lives,
briefly,
as hatred becomes despair,
in their minds, they thought of the nails
he hammered into his victims’ skull,
and they thought that the system fails,
but after they prayed,
the guilty verdict stayed,
a muted chatter filled the small room,
switch on during the afternoon,
and a quick end emptied the gloom.
Copyright © Frank F. Atanacio | Year Posted 2009
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