His eyes catches hers. They have this rheumy layer that ever so slowly breed tears. She is wearing a black headwear; shrouding herself in furtiveness, mourning her paramour even before he bites the dust.

The despair is apparent on her face. Her robe loosely hangs on her frame, she has conspicuously lost weight. So far she’s stood covert amongst the troops but his relentless stare is prompting people turn their heads. He casts a grin. Her eyes relent and drop tears as she cocks her head away.

He casts a despondent figure as he is marched to the lustrous guillotine, draped in a drab loose sullied cloak embodying his anguish. Disheveled, he reaches to scratch his scraggly beard. His bare feet insipidly shamble on the concrete, the path way to where the he meets the grim reaper.

A slight trench opens to a drainage and into a tunnel, which waits to seep his blood. Folk clamor, a pandemonium of miscellaneous voices. Precocious children, women and men jostle to witness this spectacle, even the infirm pluck the strength to fight.

Executions attract a lot of hoopla, deeply entrenched in the culture sits an eerie morbid sensation. His phantom shudders by him, waiting to be stripped of his hovel.

He loves her and it is costing him his life.


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