For the random poems that don't deserve to wither away, tucked within the margins of papers.
The shadow cools his face, the voice above him lullabying and deep.
The tips of his fingers freeze, becoming numb.
He no longer has the energy to move them.
With morbid humor--
--the last in him--
--he waits for his sentence to be carried out.
The corner of his lip twitches--
Even with closed eyes, he knows that that sudden lilt--
--that unexpected hitch in song--
--was because of him.
His killer hadn't been expecting
Not this late in the game.
Not when he was already supposed to have won.
But look who's won, now.
--now the darkness trembles.
Mistake is realized oh-