Revolution, 1789

The sun comes up every morning, as always.
The day passes still in 24 hours.
Just as the moors in England rise and fall,
so too will I. My astral schedule beats to the rhythm
of the executioners drum.
Up and down.
A tug on the rope, or a tight grasp
make the difference between a lost finger, foot,
scalp, neck. Never once, when I was simple steel
did I drink death. Now I am the executioner.
My scythe cuts flesh like wheat.
My romantic crop realizes their population
dwindles through fear.
But what do rolling heads do to revolution,
save stoke a fire?
The taint of a tyrant's blood rusts on my fang
but will be washed with the innocent children,
children caught in the wilds of anxiety and cunning.
Speeches arouse corpses only,
they will all be dead. And when they are gone,
I will sit and smile at the dust
with the sounds of discontent and rhetoric vibrating in my blade.