The Hanging

Rotting reeled fruit gone bad,
Once full and sweet -
Swaying in the dusty wind
that sings not of love or strengh or power,
But is empty, biting the earth
with its bitterness.

And there he hangs.
The dance is over.
Lips dry crackled, crow picked eyes
and blue; the cold is taking hold,

A terrible corpse
In it's glory of death.
A part of God's unforgiving plan.

I stand in the shadows
And blow out the midnight candles,
Just as God blew out the candle
Of this pour soul

Hanging there
Reeled rotting fruit.