The Indian Tree (poem)

The Indian tree stood tall on the hill

If lightning hadn’t struck 

It’d stand there still.

With rotted black heart

And bleached white bones.

Passing at night 

Its shadow stretched dark

As fingers of dread

Clutch at my heart.

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About Marie

An eccentric & quirky artist and writer who fills her time between fantasy roleplaying sessions with painting, writing and playing her guitar (rather badly). Usually to be found with paint-stained fingers surrounded by books and tubes of acrylic paint.
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