The Hangman

There's a man who's hanging from a tree,

Just below my balcony,

Cross stitches where his eyes once were,

Swaying body, leaves that stir.

Is this what this man deserves?

Now that decay is all he serves?

I cannot tell if it's relief,

Or just the face of agony.

In time now I acquiesce

This weathered, beaten countenance.

And while I look into my mirror,

Death, it whispers, comes yet nearer,

It ends, it ends, it all will end,

The angel's kiss, she waits to send.

I cannot look him in the eye,

And yet I trust that I must try.

The harder and harder that I look,

I feel the breaths he never took.

Although I feel some gaze in awe,

I'm not so sure of what they saw.

And though the leaves are turning brown,

I'll never, ever cut him down.