The Chopping Block

I’m a simple solid stump, thick, round and hard. With an iron wood heart and rich brown color, I’m quite handsome and stalwart, if you don’t mind my scars.
I’m ever ready to do my duty, always waiting for the next dance with death. Not that I’m a bad sort of fellow, for I’m a slave in truth, like any other vassal to the virgin queen.

The axe blade is vixen to my beau with chaste kisses on my cheek and a promise of next time, then leaving me cold with her quiet gaurdian in a black hood. I’m left with the aftermath, the sorrow-filled silence and the dripping of blood.

I’m no hard stone to shed tears with a cold heart and a rough surface.
I feel their last moist breath, soak up salt from their tears and iron from their blood.
I make them a part of me forever, a record of pain, a sad story to tell all.
And I do.

“So bloodthirsty!” They’ve said, right to my face. “So much death, so important to the history of this place.”

But I had had nothing to say about where Mary Queen of Scotts last laid her small head.

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