The hanging tree
An oak tree,
riddled in grasping vines
and frosted in lichen,
tries to stand proud.
Leaf-littered branches
crick and crack,
stretching towards velvety bruise,
only falling short.
A craggy, frayed rope
is the gravity;
a fibrous despair
crippling the oak.
Dry-rotted and jaded
the noose lacerates skin
as it is wound around limb;
left to sway above dirt
The finger extending
from the ratted ring,
fades hollow,
charred and carbon black.
My heart is a cannibal:
devouring my beating blood.
Gnashing and biting quicker;
stronger.
My eyes reveal a ghost—
a face hooded black;
paralleling the void
transgression makes.
Thud.
A kick of a stool.
Thud. Thud.
Or the pounding vein beneath the rope.
Whoosh.
A falling body.
Whoo-oosh.
Or the final exhale of breath.
The soul escaping.
—No.
That body was already dead.
And the tree will eternally carry it’s weight.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoesiaPoems I have written from years ago to now. For any of you looking for a love poem, you most likely will not find one here (unless I write one in the distant future because for some reason my brain short-circuited and thought I it would be a good id...
