literature

The Hanged Man

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Literature Text

The hanged man perches,
Like a thin sparrow, in the branches of his tree
As he watches the snow fall onto his head
And drip through his broom-straw hair.

It's odd, he thinks
To see himself beneath his feet,
Strung up on a knotted old rope
That was found under a pile of wheat in the storehouse.

As he sits, waiting for some sort of judgement or
Next life, the arms of a beautiful angel,
The knot around his neck loosens, his body slips down an inch
Making him jump as the crows on his shoulders hop up then settle down again.

He hops down to the ground, hardly making the leaves dance
And pokes at one of his limp arms.
He rummages in his pockets and finds a rusted silver pocketwatch.
Half past midnight, four hours now since they hung him.

He peers into the pocket of his body.
The same watch, there, on the left side
Next to a few cigarettes, a piece of paper and a lucky stone.
He found it at the riverbank the other day. Didn't really work.
he died.
© 2011 - 2024 SugarHeartedGirl
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