Poetry inspired by “The execution of Lady Jane Grey”

I feel the cloth against my eyes, I now only wait for my demise.

I feel the wood against my fingertips, it waits for my blood to stain it.

I hear the wails of the women who saw my birth, who will forever see my death.

I feel the barron helping to lower me, yet he wishes he could see me free.

I feel the dread as I'm laid upon the wood, the weight of my death upon me.

I hear the footsteps of the executor, his ax sparking against the floor.

I feel the pain it searing through my neck, yet I couldn't scream in distress.

I feel my head hit the cold floor, the last thing i think being my husband and fathers heads to be hitting the same cold floor