Last Taste (Poetry)

He got away, had one last fleeting taste
of being free — of running for his life —
he stole his chance, that final brief escape
those few minutes of defiant ecstasy
with nothing left to lose — so near, so far
and hugging the belief they failed to shake.

He broke his bonds and hope drew cautious breath
every nerve delirious with fear
and desperation drove him, fuelled his feet
while terror dogged, denied a faint relief
time lengthened, moments formed in memory
an image of himself that struggled free.

They caught him, and despair black as the hood
that blotted out all light and smelt of hate
filled him, extinguished the small spark of hope
he’d nurtured to sustain himself, his thoughts
turned bitter at the roughness of the rope
and the axe blade they sharpened for his throat.

He waited, and anticipation’s sweat
ran cold as dreams from which he couldn’t wake —
panic rose, pumped frantic in his veins
an overwhelming sadness killed all pain
the moment that he died — it wasn’t blood
but freedom that he tasted on his tongue.