The hanging tree

It stands silent now.
But for the wretched whispering,
From within it's wilting boughs.
No clammy hands,
Nor jaundiced face ,
Trying to grasp swinging rope,
No more praying to Jesus,
For that last ounce of diminishing hope.

They have long since past.
Them quizzical eyes,
Gazing at the tyranny of man.
Unfurling all his vengeful wicked ways.

What is left now?
Only the echos of mercy pleas,
And long forgotten phantom screams,
Rustling upon withering leaves,
Beneath the cool midnight  moon.