The path, laid with stone
leads to the center of town;
where the straight pebbles
spiral on the floor,
surrounding a wooden contraption-
the blade, slanted and gray,
gleams on the top, suspended
by a fraying rope.

His title is Marco-
no honorifics
or “Your Majesty”s.
He is ushered on the wood
by those above him, 
in front of those that watch him,
(they whisper when they hear
what He Has Done;
but Marco thinks of horses
in kitchens
and thinks, instead
of what They Have Done)
and he stands
staring at the orange autumn leaves
with misplaced wonder.

His leg- a gash,
his cheek- a bruise,
his arms- white bandages.
Hair matted, greasy,
hanging low on his dark dark eyes;
hooded, accepting, 
invisible arms hugging 
the blessing of death.

He’s shoved against the gravel
head strangled (suffocating)
between the wooden panels.
He keeps staring at orange things-
that nobleman’s hair
(Trevor)
that tree’s foliage
(Trevor)
that woman’s dress
(Trevor.)
He keeps faltering at tan skin-
the executioner's biceps
(Brother)
the child’s face at the front
(Brother)
the woman cradling her
(Don’t leave.)

He sees the sky,
streaked with clouds
of fluff and comfort
that he will touch when he rises
from the falling of a blade;
he sees the blue,
and he whispers 
good night 
to the fading memory
of eyes blazing at palace walls
and then leaving with trails of sorrow.