Black is the color of the Florida night,
and black is the path to a tree of white,
and bright is the lie that shines this night,
and black are the bones of the tracks that slide
through the wilds of the world
to only divide the sides
of the right and the wrong
and the black and the white.
Beware of the stop near the tree of white
for red is the fruit on the tree this night.
It was like a dream, walking past the dusty railroad tracks, northward to all the places I\'d rather be. I saw the child grinning beneath the branches of a tree, not far from the rails upon which I\'d soon flee. The grin was red on a face smeared with mulberries. The branch above his head had a rope - ah, the hangin\' tree.
It was a small town, but larger than the forts to the south. An awkward hot place to bake and swallow those who wanted to be swallowed, those who wanted to be lost. It\'s the real cost of a town such as this. A place where things end, a town named after its tree - Mulberry. Seems that on this eve, it was the place I would have to be.
There was a small crowd at Grady\'s Inn downtown. Aside from owning the inn, it seems Grady was the town marshall as well, and this town was most definitely under his spell.
In my case, I still had a lot of oil from the water-snake to sell. It sometimes makes folks well. The soldiers at the forts to the south really wanted it, but the people in this town were haunted by it, by the evil of snakes. So none could I sell.
No matter, cause the night, the long walk, and the heat was about to ring its sweaty bell. This place was so fucking hot, and a worthy substitute for hell.
My room, like the road into town, was dusty and old. There was a discolored oil lamp, a dresser, a mirror with fading silver backing in a space that was lacking. The bed was small and withered, but clean enough. Enough to fall, enough to crawl into its creaking embrace. A bed where I would lose my place in reality.
And then all was dark...
(Dream Tree)
Tracks near a tree glowing white
I sight I can barely perceive
To pulse like a heart alive
Adorned in red mulberries
A beacon calling, pulling me
To a place I\'d rather not be
Tracks that fade off into blight
Into dark dark fathomless night
Oh tree, how do you come to be
To blind my sight, hold me tight
Reach for me with arms of light
Oh tree of fae, on whom do you feed
And bury at your roots
in dry earth
next to tracks
in the town
of Mulberry
Eyes open to the sight of the marshall. Grady,
smiling,
berating me with the joy of the one who won. The one who claims all that can be claimed in splendor and superiority, and it seems that what will be claimed this day is me.
\"You see son, you now belong to me! To come into my town so disrespectfully with the oil of things that slither, that crawl, that deceive. I will not let these things be. Seems you\'ll be coming with me
down to the tracks
to the mulberry tree\".
You see, these are the things that must be. A purveyor of things slick and glistening in a town of reckonings
in the hot hot interiors
where you\'ll find yourself inferior
to the beckons, beckons, beckonings
of justice and rule.
As you sit on the mule under a tree of white and remember the red smile of the child
the previous night,
you finally come to know and understand your fate amidst the welcoming white branches of eternity.
Black is the color of the Florida night,
and black is the path to a tree of white,
and bright is the lie that shines this night,
and black are the bones of the tracks that slide
through the wilds of the world
to only divide the sides
of the right and the wrong
and the black and the white.
Beware of the stop near the tree of white
for red is the fruit on the tree this night.