It was yesterday eve that I walked the trail—
Trodden often by mule and man—
And just like those who walked it before,
I stopped at the foot of the Gallows-Tree.
Erected amongst the thick forest brush,
With ancient wood planks, rotted and cracked,
Obscured by the shadows of three men,
Choking still on the Necktie of Stolypin.
The Priest was hung by his parish—
Strangled by the sins he committed.
He waits on just one loyal follower to let him down,
Learning to pray only with a rope-burned throat.
The King was hung by his subjects:
Storming his castle, liberating his gold—
Crafting the noose with the silk of his robes.
The final execution of a king’s reign is always his own.
To the left, Priest,
To the right, King,
And the Commoner was hung right between them.
A note, not a whimper, came from his open mouth,
Looking for stars hidden by a blanket of leaves.
He suffered long before he was sentenced to hang.
I lingered for a moment, wondering
If I should help them walk free once more, but
Just like those who’d come here before,
I soon continued along the forest path.
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