Blood on the leaves

The tree stands at the middle of the compound hideous to the background, like a place in hell called hells court yard. The leaves are green and broad with thick branches, moving roots and a crooked posture. Carissa says its been here since her fathers great grand father was alive. They renovated every other thing but the tree.

The tip of the Montecristo glows orange as the blue harsh flame barely touches it.

Broad leaves at night and pines in day time. I could get closer to touch it but, an ancestral tree means a tree for the ancestors.
Wait! Black bodies swing from its branches, strange fruits tell a story of suicidal executions.
Black men with swollen faces, dried blood from their eyes and mouth, with gushed out bowels.

The white smoke from the cigar dances in my face, I can't see it, my mind is else where.

You could see their bruised fingers, they were slaves that stole from their masters farms for their children while their own mouths were padlocked.
Their eyes are still open, most looking up for a divine intervention, some for souls to take pity on, and others I can't tell, their eyes are white, guess they stayed up rather longer.
The ropes from the branches to the necks of the slaves are firm, dangling the black bodies from side to side as the wind blows.

Blood drops from the leaves as the vision fades away. What am I doing here? My chest feels heavy, guess I've been smoking this cigar for longer than I thought. The moon is full, the century witches will soon be out. I should leave this place for them. To hell with these visions, I've made my bed, let me sleep in peace in it.