Once a Poplar

Passive and watching, caught up in the crowd, with chanting and torches, all screaming so loud. The wailing of women, a pouting young child, a rope o’er my shoulder, eyes murderous and wild. Hooded the ghouls, in pristine white cloth. Battered the young man, in bloody red froth. All this commotion is horror and fright The rope on my shoulder... they’re drawing it tight. Gasping and choking and kicking of feet, hollers and cheering, the act is complete. Oh, how did this happen? It wasn’t to be. I once was a poplar; now the lynching tree. 06/13/15