The Green Noose
Each day in the woebegone oak
Hangs the green noose.
Like the outline of a tear
It seems to drip with the brine
Water of desperation.
One day the last leaf departed
From the branches of the oak.
The noose looks guilty.
Now its shape is a sly smile
Like that of the moon, before
It drops from the sky
And shatters the downtrodden
With the shrapnel of fate.
Daily I walk by the green noose
And its very being seems to be
Some kind of horrible temptation
Like when one stands at the edge
Of a cliff and wonders what it would
Be like to fall off.
Yet, I walk onwards
Against the wind, which, animated
By the magic of the green noose
Attempts to pull me back
With its ghostly outstretched arms.
I walk until the memory of the wind
And sly smiles and green rope
Are purged from my soul
By life, which I choose.