The Hanged Man

You might think I’m quite foolish

Hanging from this old oak tree.

Travelers pass me by

And see my goofy grin.

They scoff and they jeer

But they do not understand.

 

Most would consider it damning

To be strung up by the ankle

And sway in the breeze.

In truth, it was quite miserable at first

Feeling the blood run to my head

To be stuck, out of control.

 

However, it is quite enlightening

To see the world from the other angle

To see frowns turn to grins

Words on carts

Turn to fascinating new languages

And I never quite admired

The grass I always tread upon

Until it became the sky to which I daydreamed.

 

Ever passing travelers see

A lame man in a robust tree

A bum, a fool, or otherwise rude things.

Yet I know better

I’d rather the rope be tied about my ankle

than about my neck.

 

One day, perhaps soon, perhaps not

But one day either a traveler will stop

And cut me loose

Or the branch I hang from

May crack and break

And I’ll come tumbling free.

 

For now however

I will sway, watching all the people

The grass,

Enjoying the breeze.

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