Halfway up the Hangman’s Hill
or maybe halfway down,
a broken house with empty eyes
stares blankly over town.
Dark deeds of old have taken toll
and none dare visit now
‘cept she and I, beneath a sky
solemn as her vow.
Larunda’s daughter, flaxen haired,
and Mercury’s wild boy
lie close as roman candles dip
and shadows writhe with joy.
Intertwined in sweet repose,
two hearts beat a single drum.
In darkened room, by reaping moon
a spark flicks its frenzied tongue.
Halfway down the Hangman’s Hill
lie broken, charred remains
of devotion, rare, a love laid bare
cleansed in crimson flames.
First published at Black Poppy Review, July 2017