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Jeb was a veteran of the War of all wars,
When brother fought brother and families closed doors.
Wounded in battle in the year of sixty-one;
Four years before Gettysburg, fore' it just begun.

Jeb got a Medal of Honor two years ago;
Six months later he buried Anna in the snow.
A mason by trade, local tombstones his forte;
A loner by night, a master craftsman by day.

He lived in an old, clapboard excuse for a home,
Making his living, chiseling hard bedrock stone.
Each stone custom crafted with names of the deceased;
From a quarry, in the town's dangerous northeast.

A rocky splinter of land carved out of coarse stone,
In a place called Diablo, better left alone.
It was here that he'd come, first thing every morn,
When the daylight was with him; the day's mist airborne.

Copious creations completed correctly,
Any work Jeb finished, it was done adeptly.
None to be shipped until the final okay, and
Then only after, he firmly packed them in sand.

Jeb had always hoped that Anna would bear him an heir;
Now alone, there was no one with whom he could share.
Fortune never shined on this kind-hearted old man;
Knowing in his heart that death, could not be outran.

It is said that one day the dark reaper came, and
In the early dawn in the slippery upland,
Jeb fell to his death on an iron wagon below;
The old stone mason landed head down in the snow.

His skull was split open with much gory detail -
Birthed the Stonemason's Legend - a most morbid tale.
Folklore surrounded this magnified tragedy;
As the specter each night, retraces its journey.

You don't want to venture to the quarry at night;
You may find yourself slip with no one to indict.
The townspeople close their windows, just before dark;
Fear the Stonemason - his journey, now to embark.


August 5, 2016

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