Convictions

Beneath this dimly lit room, I perform my last rite. Kneeling on the floor, with a quill in my hands, I write my last will. I am to be executed tomorrow. The guillotine awaits. The executioner prepares. The king feasts. The crowd is speaking. Come morning, the town's square will be the cup that contains my spilt blood. Come morning, the sights of our beheaded bodies will litter the imagination of many. The suns rays, forever immortalizing the legend of the innocent men and women. For generations they will speak. For generations they will question. And after generations will they realize. We do not fear death.

If I gave you my world,
Would you give me yours?
If I laid down a bed of thorns,
Would you come lie with me?
If I were to draw my last breath,
Would you bear my casket upon your shoulders?
If the heavens lay before me,
Would you come with me?
If I kept fighting,
Would you be my shield?

Morning has arrived. The guards unlock the gates of our cells. We are chained. A hood put over our heads. Drowning out the lights from our eyes. We knew that this would be our last. As we are dragged to the middle of towns square, we are greeted by the deafening of the people. Drowning the clanks of the hooves of the horse that takes us to our final destination.

As we are laid upon the podium, we are read the charges that have been proclaimed upon us. One by one, amid the cheers of the people, we are hoisted to the blade of death. This is our finale. Soon we will be nothing more than lifeless bodies, scattered, feeding ourselves back to the earth from which we came. But our memories, our memories will live on.

Suddenly, the roar of the crowd rages beyond sanity. It was time. As the rope was cut, the blade fell. Forever separating us from our bodies.