Death Row

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The egg-colored stone walls are softened with age,
unlike the men,
and women,
who hang on until there is no more forgiveness.

The gallows

A rope twisted like a fig vine,
lifted over a piecemeal trap door.

Beneath the trap lifeless forms are dragged
across the smooth dirt floor becoming
dust to dust in the adjacent field.

About justbrinkley

poetry, flash fiction, prompts from a southern granny who should have been a writer.
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