His Last Cigarette Before the Firing Squad- A poem.

For a moment, he was a fireless dragon, smoke
pooling from his mouth. He stood, proud, with a blindfold,
but he didn’t need to see what he was protecting. His throat
quivered as he swallowed. He wasn’t guarding gold.
Cigarette clinging to his lip like a gull to a cliff,
he smiled, savoring the flavor of his last few breaths.
A lord with no treasure, he knew he would forgive
them all, standing in front of the wall, a target on his breast.

I pull the trigger, and my smoke shoots through his.
But mine carries death, and he crumples like a puppet,
smoke spilling from the holes tearing apart his skin.
His smile has burned itself into my mind, a fragment

or a memory that he tried to impart as he died.
I think he knew I was bribed.

Featured Image by Alex Lindeman under Creative Commons.

Categories: poetry

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