A bell doth toll in distant tower.
From my prison balcony
The smell of figs,
Sweet and fragrant waketh me from my trance.
Much prefered to the odor of irony rot oozing from beneath thy ligatures
That holdeth me captive.
Thy constant seeping maketh me nauseous.
O’ how I long to draw my dagger from its leathery sheath;
To feel thy pressure as I spiral into peaceful eternal sleep.
To taste the honey of death woulds’t be such relief,
For this living art not emulous of life.
I blush to think that this is how my end shalt come,
At the hands of thy cowards and fools.
Yet destiny hath no master
And I, but a pawn shalt be sacrificed
For thine greater good.
I committeth my soul into thine hands;
With the hope that thou mayest sleep at night
Knowing the wrong thou hast done,
–I bid thee farewell.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~