[Clutbuck]

I waited for him.
The warmth in my eyes transformed into ice.
The ill-fated horseman came toward us as sure as the sky
would fall into night soon. Its stygian pitch kissing his skin
while luring the rider into the grip of its distant abyss.
The whistling winds carried uncertainty.
Sang with a shrill clamorous chill
that bit at the fingers of the man at the hilt saddled with guilt.
The blood of massacred villagers lay on his hands. Fading to black
like our past never will, staining them sanguine. Tainting the track
taken with tragedy. The blood sweat and tears of good men that feared
the upset and unrest they were subjects to here.
Mud-drenched footsteps come nearer.
A cricking c.acophony of clippety-clop
rhythmically plodded; sounding his death-rattle at every brick thick with moss on the bridge as he crossed.
I sit and I watch,
waiting in shadow to take him to task.
Blade in my hand. Fingers of frost. Glacial the glance.
They came at a canter,
just to be brought to a halt by what they saw as they balked —
a sauntering sultress so sordidly sculpted, all she wore was impulse.
The Lorelei’s lull is used to take your soul and make them whole
but the moral is that those who cross the bridge,
must pay the toll.