Your reaching hand is empty, garden stripped
Of flowers, the hanged man dancing upside down,
A lost god walking in an empty garden.
Your hand can reach to where the hanged man’s gripped
And weave his tears to make a thorny crown.
The hanged man’s hand is reaching for a lie.
As midnight falls, all trepasses are pardoned.
An empty garden is no place to die.
Notes: The prompt was to write a san san, an eight line poem which repeats, three times, each of three terms or images. The eight lines rhyme in the pattern a-b-c-a-b-d-c-d. I used a reaching hand, the hanged man and an empty garden and went where that took me.