The Slaughter Tree

O, how to describe the movements,
Of this swinging tree!
Its arms are forced into a place,
That was never meant,
For anything but the dumping of waste.

Romances are how we run,
This one has been abused.
The least Romantic romance,
Has been used.

No more, no more!
These thoughts are in the mud.
As thorns are gripping and digging,
Ripping my peachy-fleece,
That never could,
Prevent my cuts from wounding up.

Who in this world knew,
That this thing which lacks the ability to tell,
The difference between what is right,
Or wrong,
Would spring up into life,
With wooden knives,
And slay us humans so?

A group of men are swung around.
In turns, the sky becomes the ground,
As we’re washed in rain of red,
The sap of bodies dead,
Led back into the earth,
That some said,
Gave us our thinking heads.

This is revenge.

For a moment, while I’m hung beneath the clouds,
I look down.
The world under the shroud of night.
The dimness in the full-moon’s light.
Displays a bloody sight.

Five snake-like arms hold up a man,
With all the strength they can.
With all effort to keep him afloat,
A thorny vine slides inside his throat,
And rips him from the inside out.

High above the Earth, I stare,
To see this man burst in the air.

Has it been worth all of our words,
To see these tables turned?