Old ragged, weathered hands
    Cold and very tired,
 Rested upon what back or shoulder or neck I had.
 Sunlight as I had never seen before
    Whose blazing streams spread across the horizon
     Honored my early morning, early day death.
 This place upon which I stood,
    Upon which I would contemplate my wrongs with rights,
     Seemed too small to acknowledge as the place of my death.
 There were shadows, across which hung loose
    A rope.  I choked to see the infinity below without one, not even one, 
     Man so sad or bent praying for this flesh of which I speak.
 My future, as it seems, collected these worthless dreams,
 And with no one but the walls to share my grief,
    Slowly melted them away.
 Justice had so mutely whispered judgement's words but
    If he would only cut this rope upon which I now hang,
     Lacking that substantial substance resembling life-
    That which I had never known,
     Had never loved nor ceased to love.
 But I died.
 (And what sunlight could filter over my lifeless form I-
    With what neck I had or have, turn still circles upon
     A shadow of wood, rope, and the iron hinge.)