FMS Pictures & Poetry

In the dark stands a lonely hill -
Really no more than a bump.
I stand and watch, my eyes fill,
In my throat grows that cancerous lump :
A retched emotional dump.

Through the swirling mist I see
Ever so faintly he,
A figure swaying up there
Attached to a disfigured tree
Like from the ring, a key.

Clearing my lens comes further shock,
Approaching the man yet closer
It becomes apparent on his clock,
Half covered with ragged fur,
He bore a smile under.

He may have paid a small fee
By swaying from that tree
But at least now he's free.