The hanging tree is here
Peacefully wanting
Joy in its stance
Within a hidden sadness
It waits

In a place of tranquil its roots
Lay ready for madness
Loss
Tears

Beckoning my way
I'll fight it come May
To water it's moss
My tears
Failing heart

Be when I am old
Worn past tired
Rot in my hell
I'll visit this place
Go say my last grace