The Casket Tree by L. M. Montes

In the forest stands a fingered tree,
With leaves and prickles that snatches me,
I stop and stare, its spell it casts,
And a wind doth blow the strongest blast.

Now out I gaze with unmoving eyes,
Upon the next victim who saunters by,
My leaves they prickle and snatches thee
As you pass by the casket tree.

By L. M. Montes