As he walks away,
his distant paramour on the horizon,
the hills resting on his shoulders like mountains,
his feet tapping a death toll in the dirt,
and the road before him endless,
black shrouds wrap around his legs
as if to halter each wayward step,
and drag him back to the arms that wait
in the little cottage past the bend,
hidden in the supple curves
of the seductive path he's chosen
it's tucked beneath the rolling land
and there she waits with arms spread
wide open and maybe slightly dead
as he walks away.