The Hanged

 My cell is empty, dark and dank,
A evil scent fills the air. 
I look out of the small window searching for the flower
The guards say will grant me freedom.

They're lying, of course,
Nothing could grant me freedom.
My crimes are many, my sentence was long,
But then I did the unforgivable.
I pleaded with the judge to spare me,
But the sentence was firm,
"Death, by hanging,
One week from Tuesday."

It's almost time.
The executioner comes, 
Her face invisible behind the black mask she wears.
We walk over stone, to the outside world,
Strange that this is the last time I'll see it.
They say that in the past, prisoners wore garlands of flowers when killed,
To remind others that freedom only came from death.

I don't know if that's true,
I only know that this is the last freedom I'll have
Before the underworld consumes me. 
Even in death, one can't escape the judgement of man.