Woodcut by Helen Kendrik Johnson, 1900

Scene II

He finally came to the clearing;
he looked across at the stones.
Each one was a dark, eternal bed, except for one that shined in red.

And in the moonlight he shivered;
the thought alone made him sick.
But there he was with a shovel and a bag, and then tomorrow he’d be rich.

His head felt like a mattress,
the kind without any springs.
And he couldn’t decide where he should dig, or how’d he’d break it in.

He took a breath and just did it,
and by the end he was drenched.
With a nervous hand he popped the lid, then staggered back and retched.

“I’m dreaming — this can’t be real…”
he was screaming, in a fool-enraged appeal.

He tried to gain his composure;
he slowly crept his way back.
He had to know that what he saw was fake, that he wasn’t that insane.

He thought he saw his own clothing;
he thought he saw his own eyes.
But when he finally peeked over the edge, there was nothing down inside.

“I’m dreaming — this can’t be real…”
he was screaming, in a fool-enraged appeal.

“I’m dreaming — this can’t be true…”
he was screaming, in a fool-enraged adieu.

@ScottAmpersand