A haunting oak rises above
a mound of graveyard earth,
creaking moans, weeping sighs
ghost by, riding the wind.
I see a little boy
hanging from this tree
rope constricting about his neck
like a snake slithering
across a 'higher' branch.
I rush to the child
as if I can save him.
I do not know who
hung him; himself or another,
but I know he is still alive.
And I sweat and curse
as my grip slips.
A mortal Atlas can bear
only so much of the world.
And I weep as I hold
his legs because he is my son
my brother
my friend
my self
and I know I alone
am not enough
and my world slowly dies
with each quarter inch
of life slipping by.
I cry for help
but here are no lawyers
no investigators
no courts
no justice
to help;
here the blade of truth
is a dull, weak thing
and I cry far at least
for another set of hands.
Another set of hands to help support my son
my brother
my friend
my love
because, as he dies,
I die
and the world would not be
such a rich place
without each of us,.
Tears fall from my eyes
shiny like new pennies.
Oh! Only if they were,
I'd soon have enough
for all our salvation.
Karl Chamberlain
© All rights reserved