Halfway up the Hangman’s Hill or maybe halfway down, a broken house with empty eyes stares blankly over town. Dark deeds of old have taken toll and none dare visit now ‘cept she and I, beneath a sky solemn as her vow. Larunda’s daughter, flaxen haired, and Mercury’s wild boy lie close as roman candles dip and shadows writhe with joy. Intertwined in sweet repose, two hearts beat a single drum. In darkened room, by reaping moon a spark flicks its frenzied tongue. Halfway down the Hangman’s Hill lie broken, charred remains of devotion, rare, a love laid bare cleansed in crimson flames.