Just Atop That Wild Hill

End of shift, almost.

Standing outside the docks of the grocery store, where I work.

Smoking a cigarette after unloading a delivery.

 

The sun coming up.

Streaks of red and yellow and orange.

Muted and burning.

 

On the hill, just over there.

Thick with brush, knotted trees.

They hung witches.

 

1600s, a wild panic.

The gallows to hang witches.

Just atop that wild hill.

 

No one else here knows.

Everyone tries to forget.

Act like it never happened at all.

 

Just a vacant, brush, trash filled hill.

No other sings of the lives taken there.

No one sees or hears the ghosts.

 

No one else here knows.

Everyone tries to forget.

Act like it never happened at all.

 

 

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