Death Row

You always hear people talking about walking the walk of life, but you rarely hear about walking the walk of death.
Walking from Death Row, down the corridor shackled by your hands and feet, prison guards on both sides, approaching the iron door where within lie the impliments of death that will end your miserable life.
Death Row is a place of hell on earth, solitary confinment for months, years on end, with only your thoughts for company, many go mad.
And all you can do is wait.
How can it be a kindness, allowing you to choose your last meal on earth? Do they really think you can enjoy it? knowing you are only hours away from your own execution?
The food turns to ash in your mouth, somehow sticking in your throat. You can't enjoy your last meal on earth, not armed with the knowledge of your iminent death.
And then you at last walking the walk of death, with no hope, no-one to turn to.
Let me tell you, there are no heroric last thoughts, no deep and meaningfull last words, just a terrible mantra in your head 'if only if only'...your heart is pounding in your ears and all you can feel is sheer raw panic.

Go into Death Row, walk the walk of death, those fatal last steps that you know will be your last.

Then look me in the eye and tell me that this is justice.

An Apology of the Log

If I were a log..

Look around you, at the terror and torment and suffering.
You reap what you sow.

Because you're human, what right does that give you to lord above all else?
To assume in your egotistical mind, that you alone have a higher consciousness. That animals and plants can't feel can't think.

I'm a log. And I feel vindicated.

We have done our fair share of wrongs too, I will freely admit.

I rotted through and fell on your house.
The storm blew me down and I made sure to land where it would hurt you most.
My branch impaled you as you tripped.
My bark scratched you as you passed me by.
My roots caught your feet.
My trunk broke your arm when you were sawing through my trunk.
I killed you when I fell.

I'm now an innocuous log, rotting on the forest floor, well sorry for my wrongs.

I'm sorry I caught you,
I'm sorry I hurt you,
I'm sorry I killed you.

But am I the sole perpetrator? The rebel without a cause?

I cried as you cut my brothers down.
I pleaded to deaf ears as my branches were hacked off.
I watched in silence as I was hewn and used so carelessly, burnt.
When my roots were torn up and I bled.
When I screamed as you hacked so viciously into my body.
When I died as you cut me down.

Shouldn't you be sorry too?