Poem: Facing Death

Here is the beginnings of a poem for anyone who’s interested.

The prisoner, amid ghastly jailers,
walks with a head bent low by his failures.
He is a hub with heavy chains for spokes.
They rattle around his neck like a yoke.

Terminating each branch marches a guard.
Sometimes jerking his leash, one will retard
this dreary half-dead victor’s procession
to ask the soldier a mocking question.

“You who fear not dying, what say you now?”
No answer comes, for silence is his vow,
say he drops his head still lower at the taunt.
They parade onward after this grim flaunt.