The Hanging Tree

The ascent has come onerouser and
duller single time
I set foot on copse or branch;
limber grubs clamber out of the
chasms of dark rot,
I've lied to you all: I still wish to live.
Thus I am still soaring and never want to hang,
my soul is able of marvels on its own -
- I need not you, Death, you perfidious colleen who
a false role assumes of æthereal witch.
Two ravens are scoping from the crowning groot green,
awaiting for me to fall last,
but
I choose my lids to close and my breath
a final share to claim;
my grip is lighter, my nails - not as scarce,
I heareth the weep of the tree.
Yet I do not die,
I cannot die,
since my lace is redeeming me - ah! ,
irises seiðred, tongue enchanting quails the wind that
keeps me up from ending and
there's only one girl who can
comprehend.
A song of misfortune is whispered among men,
who boars're wearing in battles nigh gained,
who're looking through lorgnette
of a vulture that can't see - you blind ones, don't come near me! ;
for I am spellbound
and still cannot die,
my prayer hast been satisfied.
God, I thank Thee
again for my life! - says He it was me who saved myself.
My hand is cinching, indeed,
at the lariat;
I'm penduling from the tree, and my neck is free
from the liberty of Hell and
its fire ghosts.
I'll stay here nine days, I'll stay here nine clocks.
So,
Dear Thanata, Dear Light, Dear Lady,
I've told you sole more date that
I'm your only foe.
I see across the field
a rupture and then ale of the first,
my cave is surmising me
with white sands and cobalt walls,
your cache is there, but I'n't ever say you,
ever spill
my knowledge of the magus abiding here.
So goodbye, Mother,
Farewell, Father,
I'll see you other times, as I've nurtured that day before.
But fret not, my Parents,
my friends shall you explain
that I've gone not in death, or by her claws, not at all,
but in love I'm off
to seek one true meaning while
I still've got him
to teach me how to.
Abusers and users that existed never were,
you'd each know by now that
I've killed you all long
ere traitors' swords stung
in your good hearts.
Farewell, Mother,
Goodbye, Father,
See you, my Sister and sister,
don't consign:
I'm learning, from a mogul
to brace the Force's womanly cloths
that we both own, no stones.
Clear path, oak trees leading us the papers.
I'm glinting at the strings of
one small guileful varmint,
the Mistress that can't have a ring, spirit.
Seduction often hangs.

by Angelica Bustle

Other poems of BUSTLE (78)

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