Another Dictator by Andrew Shields

I am not a silent poet

They’ll hang another dictator come sunrise.

They’ll take him outside, where his last stars shine.

Boots will clatter on the stoic stones

like his last words, which will not be his own.

His stride across the square will be just like

the stride of those who died before him. He’ll take

his steps onto the scaffold with his head

as high as theirs. The warmth of his last bed

will have faded. The noose was tied with care

by his successors. When a final prayer

has finally ended, they will crack his neck,

and they will pray that they won’t make it back

some other morning as the perpetrator

when someone will come hang the next dictator.

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