Hangman's Due
I found myself staring at the lonely decrepit evergreen tree located atop a hill where it stands amidst a seemingly never-ending storm. Heavy rain pours down on my head from the heavens, each drop feeling like a bullet penetrating my exposed skin as the constant lightning strikes electrify the air and the strong gusts of wind of the maddening storm tear through me. And yet here I stand in awe, wondering what miracle of nature lets this tree stand tall in such a phenomenally intense storm despite its hideous exterior. As I approach the tree, I feel its true nature come to light, ascertaining that I have come to the right place and that my long journey has not gone unrewarded, for I have reached my goal; "This is it," I say to myself, " this is where God was hanged." I do not know the intricacies of how it happened. Perhaps he hanged himself, or maybe he was hanged by vagabonds who defied his holy rule. Whatever it may be, there now only hangs a lonely noose from a branch, swinging alone in the storm. As hatred overtakes my body, I remind myself to let go; I'm here to do my duty and not to reminisce the forgotten tales told before my time. I grab onto the handle of my ax with a firm grip and silently approach the tree; I know what I'm here to do.
I swing my ax into the air, its blade breaking through the wind, and I begin slowly chopping the tree down cut by cut; it begins to fall to its flank. It doesn't take long until in done with it, and the trunk falls down the hill. I laugh and yell, "Begone ye old tree! May the lighting strike ye rotten corpse." In its former place of rest that has been corrupted by the men who defined the last age as one of blight and rot, I shall plant a new tree. One that may grow in glory anew. One that I might one day be hanged in. Here, we begin again.
Oh, hail the glorious dawn free of the storm. May your rays of light embrace your sons with warmth. May the clouds disperse and unveil the morning star!
I found myself staring at the lonely decrepit evergreen tree located atop a hill where it stands amidst a seemingly never-ending storm. Heavy rain pours down on my head from the heavens, each drop feeling like a bullet penetrating my exposed skin as the constant lightning strikes electrify the air and the strong gusts of wind of the maddening storm tear through me. And yet here I stand in awe, wondering what miracle of nature lets this tree stand tall in such a phenomenally intense storm despite its hideous exterior. As I approach the tree, I feel its true nature come to light, ascertaining that I have come to the right place and that my long journey has not gone unrewarded, for I have reached my goal; "This is it," I say to myself, " this is where God was hanged." I do not know the intricacies of how it happened. Perhaps he hanged himself, or maybe he was hanged by vagabonds who defied his holy rule. Whatever it may be, there now only hangs a lonely noose from a branch, swinging alone in the storm. As hatred overtakes my body, I remind myself to let go; I'm here to do my duty and not to reminisce the forgotten tales told before my time. I grab onto the handle of my ax with a firm grip and silently approach the tree; I know what I'm here to do.
I swing my ax into the air, its blade breaking through the wind, and I begin slowly chopping the tree down cut by cut; it begins to fall to its flank. It doesn't take long until in done with it, and the trunk falls down the hill. I laugh and yell, "Begone ye old tree! May the lighting strike ye rotten corpse." In its former place of rest that has been corrupted by the men who defined the last age as one of blight and rot, I shall plant a new tree. One that may grow in glory anew. One that I might one day be hanged in. Here, we begin again.
Oh, hail the glorious dawn free of the storm. May your rays of light embrace your sons with warmth. May the clouds disperse and unveil the morning star!