Tía

Tree of Honor.

Rope of Last Resort.

Sheol will make it stop.

The stillness is absolute.

The disease a hypocrite unto itself

Stigma, hate, dishonor, segregation.

The discordant pounding reverorated the tranquil stillness.

Dullness in their depths that spoke of defeat and disillvisionment.

The air was filled with sunshine and warmth.

The wind from which sound is heard.

Leg swings still damp leaves glisten in the morning.

Leaves rustle on orange glow skin.

All consuming rage ripped my heart to shreds leaving me helpless and destroyed, incessant pounding, and staccato beat.

Gusts of wind buffeted the rope against the now hollow tree.

Only the hollow echo of my question coming back in response.