Illicitexexecutionatdawn

The morning rain fell like the leaves,
Of trees whose seeds had grown and seen,
The fate of men who hath no haven,
Who’ve shriven, sought and are for taken.

That soul which shyed before the crowds,
Once restive in its loss of doubt,
Languished tame of calming breeze,
And below the skies, fell to it’s knees.

"I’ve faulted not" he eyed the ground,
As fuscous clouds formed thick and proud,
About this man who sorely said:
"This does not end when you hath my head".