Hanged Man
There’s a hanged man
outside in my yard,
he swings in the wind
like a black fruit
and I feel his weight
falling into the void.
On a moonless night
he’ll come to my door
with an end of knotted rope
around his broken neck,
and he’ll ask to come in
to dry his old cracked boots.
And when I let him in
like an old friend
to warm his veined hands,
I’ll look into his eyes
as he tells me of his soul –
my brother in crime.
By Michael Warren
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