Poor soul, center of my painful dreams,
You look brusque against that tree,
I am plagued by recurring scenes, 
My eyes too blurred to see,
Your skin, as black as a night at sea in storm,
The grass beneath your feet won’t grow,
There must be something dead in your form,
That only the birds circling above would know,
You stand there stiff, tied up in cords the size of ropes,
As if to pose for the cover of some new magazine,
You have attracted an audience of all kind of folks,
Dark smoke fills the air with a faint hint of gasoline,
The crowd is filled with excitement and tension,
As they assemble to take photos beside this lynching.