Post by Deep Thinker (@Pretioso)

The executioner’s blade was swift and cold,
A flash of steel to break the bone,
To silence truths too fiercely told,
And leave the rebel flesh alone.
The iron fell, the sever clean,
The crimson curtain rushed to close,
Yet in that fractured, breathless scene,
A terrifying wonder rose.

The head rolled down into the dust,
Apart from lungs, apart from heart,
Defying death’s dynamic trust,
Refusing to be torn apart.
The lips still moved, the jaw still shook,
The eyes flashed with a burning light,
And with a clear, unwavering look,
The severed throat reclaimed its might.

No breath of air to form the chord,
No beating pulse to drive the strain,
Yet louder than the falling sword,
The voice cut through the stunned domain.
It spoke of crowns that fade to rust,
Of truths that iron cannot kill,
Of empires crumbling into dust,
While righteous tongues are speaking still.

The crowd drew back in frozen dread,
The guard let fall his useless spear,
To hear the sermon of the dead,
Ring out so vibrant and so clear.
For though they parted bone from breath,
And struck the flesh to make it bow,
Some voices are too grand for death,
And speak much louder, starting now.

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