The Executioner's Swan Song Poem by Bryan Taplits

The second hand swept on
No chance of going back,
But the song he trilled (and sang with thrill)
He'd analyze- to avoid all attack.
Those precious moments that once were his
He gathered like poison pills-
And like unraveling twine or a red stop sign
He lapped them up-till satisfied-he got his fill.
As he lay-in his day-dying,
His memories like a gouging knife,
He remembered all the minutes passed
And realized that, as those minutes had passed,
He had forgotten to live his life.