The writings of Hunter Coch

Poem: Forget the Numbers (Part #2, draft #1) #westernwednesday

Part #1 here

Time is short,
and the sun is high,
opening my eyes,
heaving sigh.

Cracked earth,
with a lone dead tree,
the time near the rise of night,
to set the soul free.

Still rope,
my hands bound,
from a lone branch,
not a sound;

but the wind blew,
the rope swung,
the executioner in toothy grin,
destiny hung.

Laughter from beyond my perception,
from the branch dangled fate,
the hour stood at dusk,
eyes filled with hate.

The woman danced in my mind,
hope murdered in the street,
memories of a hand held,
delusions in the heat.

Put on the back of the beast,
Led to a rope,
A man whistles,
drained of hope.

Apathy empties thoughts,
dead loves waiting,
looking up, the first star,
thoughts are suffocating.

And with a tear for the departed,
hemp around the throat,
happiness about,
Executioner gives a cliche quote.

Laugh and a slap on the ass,
Beast bucks,
neck caught,
breath in flux.

No snap of the neck,
but a slow choking,
and a writhing panic,
and slowly asphyxiating,

Thunder in the skies,
fall to the cracked earth,
weakened limbs,
Breath giving birth.

Sounds of fire,
fills the sky,
night on high,
stranger in my eye.


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