Florida's Botched Executions Poem by James McLain

In Florida's land, where horror's dance,
A tale of darkness, a macabre trance,
Whispers echo through death's domain,
Of botched executions, haunting pain.

Within those chambers of somber despair,
Where lives are tethered by the politician's snare,
Justice, is sought, with trembling hands,
But fate plays out a wicked, evil stand.

The first scene unfolds, a chilling sight,
As veils of lethal fog blanket the night,
The chemical concoction, a deadly brew,
To end a life, as the law construes.

But nature, in her cruel jest, did jest,
And tremors shook the chamber's breast,
The veins refused to yield their prize,
As life endured, against all demise.

Witnesses watched in awe and fear,
The agony, the failure, all too clear,
The reaper's grip, a fleeting grasp,
A botched finale, a grievous lapse.

And yet again, the gallows called,
A stage for justice, where souls were enthralled,
But darkness loomed, a looming cloud,
As time stood still, in silence, proud.

The hangman's noose, a deadly shroud,
Was cast upon a soul, as whispers vowed,
But fate, with twisted hands, did play,
And life endured, despite the fray.

Florida's soil, now stained in red,
With echoes of horrors, the tears unshed,
In the quest for justice, so grave and dire,
The heartache lingers, a ghostly choir.

For who can claim the righteous path,
When faltering steps invite the wrath?
The specters of the botched remain,
Their haunting cries, an everlasting stain.

In Florida's land, where shadows creep,
And troubled souls find no solace, no sleep,
Let us remember the lessons taught,
Of flawed endeavors, human thoughts.

For in the depths of these chilling tales,
Resides a truth that never pales,
That justice sought with blemished might,
Is but a phantom, lost in night.