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| Poet: David Hamilton |
| Category: Death |
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I report these facts (amid some speculation
That the tyrant might deserve some adulation).
His eyes first neon, lit in search of hope,
Falling humble to extravagance of rope.
Brave to wave the wearing of a hood?
Would I, had I stood where he stood?
Jeered at by those on whom his taunts once fell
He smiled, as they too marked their place in hell.
Then mouthing some response, perhaps a prayer?
A rumble, then a jolt, then he was there,
Like the leaf that waits for snow before it falls.
His empty eyes surveyed the damp stone walls.
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