The Weeping Tree

I grew so proud 

Decades past

Growing limbs

That would forever last


Through storm and gales

Flood and drought 

I stood so strong

I stood so stout 


So what leads to my demise

Is the horror in their eyes

The grunt the kick

The gasping choke

The tautness of a stretching rope


Decaying is their mortal flesh

Hanging there,not laid to rest

With such sorrow 

What bad fortune be

For I to be,the hangman's tree


Decades pass

As I decay

Weeping limbs

That rot away


With no sorrow

I pass away

A witness  to

life's decay

◄ February Morning

The last Book ►



Wed 6th Sep 2017 21:16

Thank you Ray for your comments on my poem. Much appreciated


Wed 6th Sep 2017 21:10

Hi Colin, thanks for you insight into my poem. I do appreciate your comments, thanks.

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Wed 6th Sep 2017 17:04

A very original idea to transfer the suffering onto the tree that supported the hanging Desmond. Like double disgust and so neatly expressed.


Ashley Thomas

Wed 6th Sep 2017 10:30

Ciran wrap gripped tight around the throat
i breathe, i choke.
i tripped and felt my stiff ass neck broke

Internally vibrating, emotionally fucking penetrating

Acceptance is forced to be, eyes wide open- i see you are personally damaging to me

I've traveled along side your competition within this rat race.. Ill invite death to keep up with my continuous pace

Dead from within but my daily struggle is still faced

<Deleted User> (13762)

Wed 6th Sep 2017 08:46

if trees had feelings. There's a palpable sense of having no control over one's destiny - the tree growing and spreading its arms to unwittingly become the hangman's tree - like a person locked inside their body and unable to communicate their wishes or feelings, only able in the end to watch their own slow decline. So much sorrow so very well expressed. Thanks for posting Desmond.

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