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Breath of Vine




Dressed in your bedizen best

smelling of sweet vermouth

swaggering as if you knew it all

sheltered by the truth

I looked upon your protagonist stance

and smelled the scent of repast

knowing full well

you were sent from hell

imploring old secrets amassed.


Placed now in your servitude

I quaked at your intention

could you be that pedant God

of some harsh pretension

that was sworn by blood of hand

in drunken state of mind

to exact revenge

with every binge

to this heart of kind.


No reprimand, no repercussion

was necessary at all...

for you are just

a winch of lust

that I lift

each time you fall.

 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.