gallows on the rooftop where window washers go to suspend metal gibbet quick hinge, raise and lock secure against the weather
whipped combed and packed snow ice crusted dunes strain the winds over the buildings roofing an extreme combing exposure
doubtlessly they'll be no labor done today
On the seventh floor i watch from behind an environment sealed window wolfing my lunch on a short break in the warm fire escape
i watch a solitary worker is ejected from a hatch in the exterior wall cuffed by a spasm of wind he descends a short bolted ladder and makes a geared approach crouching his weight against the wind he drags a heavy kit mummified in protective clothing passing my spot and he then heads outward towards the bounds of the rooftop he mends a stable stance one foot close to the edge the rest of him in a low defensive pose clips his harness to the gallows stands to take a confident beating of the breath stealing brawling winter gale he radios for the gantry to be raised
Belltowers chariot signalling distance Towering gallows where I've been sentenced The iridescence of coming doom Graveyard daisies are in bloom Their season is unusually sober They've been growing whole October
So I got high and the next morning found this in my notebook.
How long would it take for people to hear My gallows soundtrack? The rhythmic thud of my leg Hitting the desk every 3 seconds The friction of the rope on the unstable hook That could give out any minute Under the weight of my palid corpse They'll probably only hear it When the hook comes loose from the plaster And my body thumps on the floor They only ever hear the fortissimo Never the piano
Promise me, my flesh you'll place 'neath a fledgling willow tree. And as it grows toward blue sky, It's in its grace you'll hear me cry. Laden with the heaviest fears, resembling, reflecting my darkest years.
A fragile bone was once my arm, so likened to the willows charm. It's branches delicate, could ne'er do harm. It's soft and fluffy hand like bud, encased in skin, the willow's wood.
Hold its hand at branches end. My message, a vibration, to you I'll send. Until the death of said willow tree, reminding you . . . . . . . . . . . always of me.
Poetry by Kaydee.
The tired and deathly willow tree with stories to tell of debutantes, swinging before entering hell.