This morning there are no rods or staffs to comfort you
dressed as a target as you amble in your chains / stumble
through the corridors that lead to our makeshift valley /
of death / the prison's backyard where you'll give us
your final breath / last night I saw you dine with lovers
and human tears but glanced at me in a way in ways that
brought to life my sleeping fears that today you'll bite
my neck and peel away the aging expose the lifeless body
and the void of divinity within / so tell me when I've
read you your rights / when the guns are in their
place / when your crime no longer seems absurd / what
will you say Kezia when we ask what are your final words?