With bowed heads we genuflect before the wicked grin of the guillotine.
In my mind's eye I go to parlay with the Grim Reaper.

He is seated before me- cloaked in obsidian shadows
His ivory bones offensive against the inky darkness
His scythe glints in the candlelight
its thirst for blood and flesh almost palpable.
His laugh comes as a rumble of thunder
Punctuated by the cracking and shattering of glass (and my sanity.)

He leans close across the table, transfixing me in terror,
staring directly into my soul. He who has no need for breath breathes -
and the smell of earth and death and decay and rot and ruin
tells me that my pleas for pardon will not be heeded.

Snapped back into reality, I close my eyes in defeat.
Suddenly- the angry serpent-air
hisses
and is parted.
Garish crimson stains ivory cobblestones.

Silence.