The Tree

A short and gloomy poem of an old tree and what it has on its branches.

The old tree stands alone,
Gnarled, bare branches reaching for the sky;
A sinner’s tree, they say.
A rope hangs from one branch
Knotted again and again over itself.
The looped end, now empty,
Swings slowly in the breeze.
A lonesome raven sits quietly near.
It watches, unblinking,
Seeming to say,
"That might have been you."