Hangman’s Noose 2025
The noose sways in the breath of the forgotten,
its rope thick with stories, secrets, and silent screams.
A relic of crude justice or cruel indulgence,
it hangs as a sentinel of shadows,
watching as the moon drips silver over the gallows.
Each frayed strand whispers a name long erased,
each knot a curse tied by trembling hands.
It does not discriminate between innocence and sin,
only demands the weight of a body to complete its circle.
The earth beneath it drinks deeply of despair,
marked by restless roots that writhe in silent hunger.
The creak of the wood echoes like a dirge,
a hymn for the condemned,
their final breath stolen by the cold, indifferent air.
The noose asks no questions,
makes no bargains,
it simply tightens with the same indifference
as time drawing its endless loop.
Above, the stars blink like apathetic eyes,
unmoved by the rituals of men.
They’ve seen kingdoms crumble,
heard the whispers of a million prayers
that rise only to dissolve against the edges of eternity.
The noose is not their concern,
nor the struggle of the dangling shadow beneath it.
The scaffold bears witness,
its planks saturated with the weight of countless falls.
The cries, the defiance, the final surrender—
all of it remains trapped in the grain of the wood,
a ghostly choir silenced but never absent.
It is not justice that resides here,
but the fragile arrogance of men
who measure life in loops of twisted rope.
The noose serves them willingly,
a merciless servant to their bloodstained whims.
And yet, in the stillness of the gallows,
there is no glory,
only the relentless march of death’s indifferent gaze.
The noose swings on,
its purpose eternal,
while the world below forgets
the names it once held,
the lives it once severed.
The wind carries its own mockery,
lifting the noose in fleeting mimicry of flight,
a cruel jest against the trapped souls
who sought only escape but found this—
an infinite embrace of the void.
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