They lead him on,
Black wool lamb up the brown-green stepped hill
To the crookèd tree that
Bends with broken body.
The ghost silhouettes,
Illuminated hotly red by hatreds fire,
Stand around in circle,
Chanting out of sync.
They look on with lidless eyes
Making cymbal clashes with their teeth
As the lamb is hooked up
Resting on a cool gleam of a metallic bucket.
He is dropping
And floats like a massless particle.
A dizzying suffocation starves his brain.
They howl, drip
Blood as he joins the tree,
A still autumn leaf.
Comments about this poem (Lynch by Sandy Player )
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