SLASH-
WOOSH-
a chop and a thud
budding evolution of man.
Born from revolution,
I'm obsessed with retribution-
a solution,
to Robesspiere's plan
the resolution to the enigma of execution
and thus they ran,
across the body filled span
to get a head start from the painting I began.
The Reign of Blood or Terror,
I smirk at pallbearers
and I work without error-
Eyes wide open and a face so pale; SLICE.
Lies once unspoken are now out in the open; SLICE.
Cries not token, wails outspoken, bloody bruised and broken.
Thrice is the lucky number to send them to their slumber-
CHOP.
Life severed at the hands of a rope and I hear their dreams drop,
watch the people cope and ignore the body flop,
chronicling their hope as it rolls to a stop.
PLOP.
Looming and cold,
no one knows of the secrets I've been told
or the powers that I hold-
and Behold! For this is my land!
given to me from the Left hand
of the Father,
stainless He is
and painless is my biz,
so the expression wouldn't bother.
Efficient with this mission-
I work ahead,
cutting up a million, I feed them with dread, yet I'm not evil
do not leave victims dead,
they watch the city painted red with the blood that they've bled,
and instead I remain Medieval-
I collect the heads.
What am I?
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