A Knitting

My hands feel whole again,
Yet in so many ways,
It feels like my hands scarcely remain.

My fingers crumble at the slightest touch,
Perhaps they’re afraid,
To return to that Death-governed clutch.

My eyes close, yearning for slumber,
But the images, once burned away,
Mar their attempts at a quiet surrender.

The scaffold is far away now,
I have tied my last noose,
Yet these hands tremble, these fingers wearily bow.

They bow, deep against my palm,
As I face my father,
Lying six feet under, resting in eternal calm.

I took a life, the day he died,
I walked away from his grave,
Without leaving a wreath at his tomb’s side.

A hangman’s hands ought not knit a wreath,
I have bid my time,
Now, I pray, my hands don’t fail at that tender feat.

I begin with roses, white as remorse,
Its thorns are but a caress,
My fingers prove to be the destructive force.

‘These hands took countless lives,’
The broken stems seemed to say,
‘A maligned hand, ensures nothing tender thrives.’

My fingers pick a trembling rose,
My eyes can’t help it,
When they see the necks these hands have deposed.

The thorns scarcely prick hardened skin,
Buried under the debris,
Of getting away with murder, a damnable sin.

Perhaps those stems pity me,
For the wreath holds two roses,
Knitted firmly, the wreath looked like their destiny.

The forget-me-nots lived up to their name,
For my memory echoed with sighs,
Of an innocent sentenced to the hanging frame.

‘A mistake,’ he had said, ‘please sir.’
If a hangman played judge,I wonder,
How many blameless souls would cease to suffer?

The blue petals peer into my conscience,
Perhaps they see an intention,
That stands against the deed and rigid compliance.

For my wreath is a half-circle,
Of white, blue,
And now, perhaps peonies, of a royal purple.

In their regnal hue, I see judgement,
‘Was it not your choice?’
They seem to ask, ‘To don a hangman’s garment.’

‘A prodigal son searching for a few coins more,
Why did he succumb,
To a calling of such ruthless, mindless gore?’

My father’s grave was my scale,
His tombstone, Justice blind,
My weeping eyes opened out my heart, to narrate its own tale.

The peonies were just, it seems,
For they fell intricately in place,
Their demand satiated by my heart’s fervent screams.

The wreath was almost done now,
Save for the lilies,
Whatever would those dear blooms tear down now?

My trembling hands tore a pink petal,
The lily simply smiled,
All storms wreck before the air does settle.

All hearts rage, all minds unravel,
And so does a Hangman,
Face reckoning before his homeward travel.

I wove the lilies with numbing hands,
Yet the flowers remained patient,
The lily, it seems never fails to understand.

That a hangman can knit a tender wreath,
Even though his hands tremble,
At accomplishing that delicate feat.

The scaffold is far away now,
I have tied my last noose,
It’s time for the hangman to make his way home, now.