poetry

The moments pass and I wait the guillotine falls

A cry goes up of rebellious joy

Blood flows and now another body and box are removed

Another goes forward and placed on the death bed and looking down at a wet basket

Red blood dripping from the board and the blade falls again

yet another loud cry and now another box removed

my turn has come I step forward and i lie in the blood of others

The sound the cry and yet I am dead and yet I see the crowd through a blurred vision

then darkness

I am dead

paris use to be place of joy and it still is only its the people and not aristocrats who cry of joy.

louisa jen

Photo by Nextvoyage on Pexels.com

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