Posted in Poetry

The Casket Tree

Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Pexels.com

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

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