Hanging Tree

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
U deside

Submitted: February 25, 2007

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 25, 2007



The oak was old and mighty, it’s years counted by scars

It’s branches bent and craggy, still stretching for the stars.

I stared at this tree of history, one limb stretched to the fore.

No voice of history was needed, that limb told the score.

It’s bark was rough as brimstone, but missing here and there.

A foreboding rode my backbone, seeing a spot where the limb lay bare.

My neck contracted it’s muscles, I could feel the bite of the coil.

Desperately, my feet sought the earth’s blessed soil.

My frightened horse bolted, giving my soul to God.

The rawhide coil jerked tight, as any steel rod

I jerked my eyes open, to a brilliant soaking light,

I came to my knees, desperately, fighting for life.

My hands to my throat, releasing the choking noose.

My fingers felt my skin, realizing my collar was loose.

My eyes sought the light, that filtered through the leaves.

A dream it must have been, I had fallen asleep.

I stepped into the sun, from under the swaying limb.

The shadows stayed behind. The shade was dark and dim.

I crossed to my car, started down the lane,

A mirrored reflection in my eyes, had I gone insane?

Around my throat, a reddened scar was burned.

I hit my brakes, stopped my car, slowly, my body turned.

The oak was old and mighty, In light a deep dark gray.

The limb I had slept under, a hanging rope gently swayed.

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