There is no map frayed, yellowed or faded enough
to know where Monkshood lives. The only mortals
who know its sorrows are the poor sods that call it home.
Trapped forever in both time and place, pining
to leave but unable to find their way past the thick
redwoods to the east and the train tracks to the west.
Forever nuzzled in the cloak of autumn's equinox;
summer's smile never quite leaves in the light of day
but fall's eerie whispers fill the darkness brought by nightfall.
Mystery shrouds the idle chatter and hints
on the gossip of patrons at the local pub.
Silver bled through the earth of the nearby hills
and became the town's very own blood.
Young miners ignored the superstitions of their seniors,
laughing at Tommyknockers and singing to the sudden drafts.
But years ago on an autumn chilled, summer day; the seniors
collapsed the portal with a cocktail of dirt, stone and dynamite.
Sealing the fate of the men still inside but refusing to tell the tale
of what they saw that made them splice the vain.
But that was a hundred lifetimes ago and the mountain hasn't bled since.
Even still,
enigmas cleave the hushed chatter among townies into parts.
A circus rode to town ages ago; arrived the last time
the town saw the gifts of spring, exciting both young and old alike.
One morning awoke to find the patrons of the show gone; disappeared,
but the stain of colorful entertainment remains.
Now the tents stand empty, no clowns or acrobats
and cages where animals waited to perform, lay barren.
Still, as dusk falls to kiss the summer's light good night
and autumn's inky darkness creeps past the trees, music.
A calliope plays a haunting lullaby though no one’s
been near the stripped canvas tents in ages.
A cemetery looms on a hill. Overlooking the lot
below like a silent vigil or a pair of hollowed eyes.
Time eroded the names once carved into the tombstones
and the hallowed ground leaves a foul taste on the tongues of
those who try to speak of who may rest there.
The rhododendron, love-lies-bleeding and lobelia that bloom
among the graves shine like beacons; bright caution lights
that scream the nature of this place. Serving as warning to those
who ignore the dread-filled knots that twist their stomachs
with each step they take toward those nameless patrons’
final resting place.