Dead Man's Hill

Dead Man’s Hill.
A ? By Mordecai J. Banda
The cackling woman finds herself amongst the murder at noon again. She has seen this before. Her farewell is an accustomed fleck amongst the dancing dust and sunlight.
Light knows he might lose his life through violent finality, but the iron tip hit’s five till noon, and his star studded boots crept of their own accord, one step close to Dead Man’s Hill.
The Faceless Man has ridden past many towns. He draws quicker than his shadow, they all say. It is also said that vultures follow him. He is a symbol of death, so that even his horse had long passed.
Coarse clay that used to be rock crushed for millennia to the blanket and sponge of blood that it is to this day. Nothing grows on Dead Man’s Hill.
The Undertaker rubs his hands together, thinking of timber and cushions. The wife bobs her hands, thinking of solitude.
No one has anything else to do. The Iron hand is a minute away. It’s longer companion is sliding across old scarred architecture destined to be sold at a million dollars.
The Faceless Man grins. The hole in his eye and mouth are nothing but abomination. The woman’s cackle dies in her throat. She is stunned there is madness greater than her own.
It is time. Ten paces. Trust an enemy, trust him better than a friend. For ten steps. Then no more.
Trust the lead. Trust the metal, the finger, the bone, the flesh, the mind.
Two, Three, Four. Trust the enemy.
Five, Six, Seven. The silence is a whine.
Eight, Nine.
Eternity stares downwards, blocking out sun. The smiles of a love long forgotten flash in the head.
Ten.