Twisting in the Wind

A harsh wind blows across a grassy plain
 battering the barren limbs of the Hanging Tree.
A frayed piece of hemp stained 
 with the blood of countless malcontents
 slowly twists in the breeze.

A crime uncommitted lays at the tip of my fingers
 poised on the tip of my tongue.
The crime of telling you how I feel
 and risking your wrath
 risking your joy.

Finger tensed on the trigger
 needing only a slight squeeze.
It is not the noose I fear
 for I'm already twisting in the wind.