by Emily Shifflett
Walking to the crossroads
Little box in hand
Shovel swung up over the shoulder
t night, walks a lonely man
When he comes to his destination
The shovel meets the dirt
Digging, digging, deeper down
The box gets put into dark, moist earth
Inside, there is a picture
That’s faded on the edge
Along with a couple leaves and twigs
Clipped, by moonlight, from their hedge
Then the lines are drawn in dust
A beacon for him who rides
Flickering candles at pivotal points
In the middle, man stands in moonrise
Lips move, quickly and quietly
Murmuring the words to call
Waiting for a response:
The sounds as footsteps fall
Then, suddenly, there he stands
Shrouded in the night
Blonder than almost possible
Smirk full of pomp and spite
“Now, how can I be of service?”
He says with a lilt to his voice
The man finally remembers to take breath,
In the final moments of his choice
“I need your help,” he finally says
“You CAN do that, can’t you?”
The smirk remains, and a mirthless laugh
“You have no idea what I can do.”
So, the man makes his request
Signs with a drop of red
Sulfur eyes spark for a moment
As he does business with the King of the Dead
