finger picking down the road,

he found himself at the crux;

dented guitar that he tried so hard to play

in hand,

he met a man at the crossroads one midnight.

he wished beneath the bloated moon,

and the brimstone man granted his wish.

he sold his soul beneath those haunted october trees,

and ever after, he played like a god,

while the the devil chased after him.

his hands scarred, his laughter cracked,

his heart on fire;

always on fire, even as the shadows claimed him.

his plaintive voice, his immortal songs still echo

throughout the lone hills,

issuing from a shallow grave laced with sulphur,

and brimming with the lonely, unforgettable sound of the blues.