Hanging Tree
The old oak tree where history
hides in shame, surely
does not remember ropes
hung high nor recalls men's
name, it
cannot feel within it’s bark
the torture of the flame, as
torches burned bright with
fire and men
screamed out
in vain. Yet here it stands, it’s
limbs now twisted by many years of pain,
and red skies
cry in sympathy
in lonely tears of rain.
The old oak tree where leaves
of green have never been so
brown, where shadows are of
constant black upon the
barren
ground and echoes of the
past remain etched into its bough,
seems to know that years ago
it’s limb was tightly
bound and
lifeless bodies swung to and fro
above now hollow ground,
that life was taken
from it’s root, the same
as was from they, and
now stands bare the
old oak there....
reminder
of yesterday.
