Oh my little Hangman
oh, how I mourn for
your soul.
Charred and blackened,
oh, how the wrong vowels,
how they pierce and bleed,
black ink
ever so quickly
forming the guillotine . . .
Little man, why?
Why do you want to
commit suicide?
The words, they pound,
and yes, the phonics punch,
but little Hangman,
you have your artist.
Allow the ink
to dry, at least.