Lynched

Swaying
Pluck me
Dangling from the tree
From the rest who have joined
From those who I have accompanied
Fastened like like great rotting pieces of fruit
Suspended ripe for picking
Apart from what you may think
It was not of my own will
You it was who dropped me

But no longer
I am left, an outcast to sway from these old branches
Long since neglected and dead, but always twisting higher
Always to make branches for more flesh to string from
The thick wind wipes dust across my ankles
Who will you chose next?