Hangman

Long shadows

wear raincoats

march swiftly

no straw men

no hollow

no night birds

just long, silent steps.

 

Lingering

in the tree tops,

long branches

reach skyward

no one sees

no one hears

the smoke clears

and we see

the illusion.

 

White gloves

a light touch

careful as

a mortician’s hands.

The trumpet sounds

the battle cry

choked out.

Asphyxiation.

 

Blood red,

the purity

the eyes tell

the tale.

Forsaken lust,

so much to gain

from razed rock

foundations.

 

The apple tree

still bears fruit

while we pull legs

from spiders.

Whiling away

our afternoons

in graveyards.

 

So close

our native land

the daylight breaks

to joyless.

Smudged out eyes

contorted limbs

petechiae

and tear streaks.

 

A gasp for air,

a blackened lung

a window

to the soul.

The schoolhouse

never chalked a lesson

like this one.

 

The closest

that the teacher came

was to show us

how to play “Hangman”.

 

HG – 2018