LONGEST lasts the guilt that is not our own. Or, some other proverb Hobb's father read aloud to him. He figured this the perfect scene to resurrect ancient times of anguished trials. Often did the young man fancy the lives of those just as unfortunate; he wondered what proverbs filled their minds in life's final moments.
Slingk! Another pierced his wonder.
The severed head was third to roll by Hobb's bare feet, this one nudging the other two closer. A frail man. No. A boy. No older than 16 rains. What tyranny, Hobb's thought. The boy's eyes, like marbles frozen in two golden moons, stared into Hobb's. He wondered what this child thought about last, 10 seconds ago when he lived. His mother. His innocence. This country.
"War Prisoner 6-7-7!," The snagtooth general shouted.
The man's obnoxious excitement, in harmony with a more amused crowd, diverted Hobb's mind back to his current matter in life: death.
"Guillotine for one Hobbs Ozaku!"
My whole Life, Hobb's thought as two just-as-snagged-tooth soldiers assisted him to the plank. Ends like this.
His head was hurriedly placed into the lunette, Hobb's feeling little of the bumping and bruising the soldiers carelessly inflicted upon him in their haste. By this point he was numb, having accepted death and anticipating its blackness as though it can be anticipated.
Slowly did the cheering crowd, celebratory canon shots and illiterate reading of his "offenses" fade into a single ringing. He knew his rapport would take little time to read, for the man was simply caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wasn't even my war. Hobbs thought. Wasn't my country. In fact, the man had only been a merchant travelling when mistaken for the enemy. Of course, remembering made him most sad. Instead did he think again about the boy who's head now rots only feet from his own. He became slightly relaxed, comforted by the idea that he at least wasn't dying as lonely as he was miserably.
He wished he too may keep his eyes open once decapitated. They ought to see the life in my eyes, the purity of my innocence. But, who would care. No one, Hobb's was certain of it. Even if anyone noticed in me a saint, everyone killed the sinner.
Slingk!
***This story premiered on episode 8 of DA PO'OP, the @poetryopera podcast. Listen today on Apple Podcasts, Spotify + Google Podcasts.
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POOP 2021
PoetryPOOP, "po-op's," or poetry operas are stories told through poetry, visualized. This collection includes original poetry opera text as well as other written content created in the year 2021. Final projects can be found Instagram, @poetryopera / ace...
