The Execution of the

This is really the only worthwhile thing I have written all week, and I apologise for the lack of normal updates. However, I do think this is one of the best poems I have posted on this site. It feels… right. At the moment. Thanks to Rosie for cheering me up!

Exhaustion trips (as the old king claimed),


Sit treasons beneath tongues – the candles crack

At the base

Why take imperfection as a cue?

Don’t you want to rule in here? A second look

At the man with the hood,

And it was clear, the circle shuddered,



To watch it fall; an unneccesary action


At the thrip-crack, a view

Shivered into springtime. New air,

Washed clean

Under a dutiful sun, which cogged itself

Around, around again.

The congregation watched time,

As if it were a crown, as if

They always had


Hours after the ceasing,

A void in the crowd.

The void stretched outward,

Formed itself a shape.

The shape looked something like

Brick dust. Almost exactly


From this, tired men build palaces.

About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

One response to “The Execution of the

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