The curtain has been called,
closed caskets and picnic baskets,
eating from the plate at the wake
praying for grace and resting in peace;
covering solid ground,
roaming nomad hoping never to be found
by the lynch-mob's hounds,
barking,
sniffing for the hidden scent,
but wadding in fresh water got 'em off the trail,
not trying to get arraigned facing Kristian Bale;
Vigilantes,
Robins,
and banshees sniffing and hunting the haunted;
as the story comes to its abrupt end,
life flashes before a blink of a blind eye,
no time to tell family goodbye,
so I must return before my flesh is burned...