The storm before the calm

No-one speaks as they shuffle, lined up in a row.

All around them, thousands of frenzied voices cry,

they screech and they crow,

Baying for blood.

His skin crawls with their chants,

as if the very words could etch themselves on,

The sheer noise drowns out his heart,

as they stand at their appointed spot,

on trial for a crime they have not yet committed.

Beads of sweat cascade down bare shoulders of the condemned,

threatening to burn in the sun,

for they are only men.

The eight are trapped,

surrounded by walls they cannot surmount.

All heads are down, focused only on their feet,

and one of them murmurs fervently, his eyes closed.

Who could help them now?

They are alone, and must face it so.

Fall, and failure swallows them whole.

Mercifully, it would be quick,

and for that, he is grateful.

One's nerve fails him in the heat,

and the remaining seven crouch, defenseless.

The corded muscles of their arms stand poised,

but empty,

for what weapon would they hold?

A single hand raises, and points to the sky,

where the clouds have scurried away, refusing to watch.

Time stands alongside them as he counts,

awaiting the signal to move.

He cannot miss,

for there will be but one chance.

The hordes reluctantly cease their clammer,

as a hush sweeps around the still air.

This is the moment he needs,

where breath slows and eyes sharpen.

This is no time to fear what has been,

or may yet come.

He hears not the bated breath of others,

nor sees the prayerful hands that watch.

He cannot feel his hands as they lie,

nor smell, nor taste,

the fear beside.

This, is all he is now.

Finally,

blessedly,

the gun fires,

and all stillness is broken with a crack in the sky.

He recoils and springs in a flash,

left leg driving hard into the ground,

arms up and already pumping,

as he takes the first leap forward.

Sharp metal spikes into soft rubber,

but only an instant, and he is away.

Time nods as he leaps: light and free.

Sparks hit his heels, as he begins to fly.