The Hanging Tree

All the beauty of every tulip in Holland
Cannot palliate the destruction of the neck
As the noose drops precipitously
At the gallows in the city square.
The hanging tree has roots extending deep into the ground,
A symbol of grim justice in a world
Where society lives in fear
And dissidence must be stamped out
Like a boot crushing colonies of ants into pulp.
The dead line up in the sky masquerading as clouds
Pouring down rain that is really blood,
Blood representing the sacrifice of the lamb
For gods who recline in leather chaises
Sipping cocktails as they turn a blind eye
To the miserable suffering of the serfdom below.
The crowd disperses leaving the newly minted corpse
To begin the inexorable progression into dust,
An ignominious journey for an assemblage of carbon
That pretended for so long to be human.
The executioner leaves to return for home
Where he will pretend that his squalid life
Means more than that of the man he has just killed,
That the stars form constellations instead of random scatterings,
That the world turns with any inkling of passion,
Passion that dies with youth.
Tomorrow morning the city will awaken and rise
And the gears of civilization will spin once more,
And the underworld will boil,
And I will stand up on the hill mustering an ironic smile.