"Have you been? have you gone?
They're lovely. they're green.
These Hills for Dying on."
'Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet,' The Latin words shone on the page like an incantation.
Prometheus Barclay (1819-1856) held his feather quill a moment above the page,
his boney fingers bright in the naked moonlight.
He might have given up with a sigh, had he still any lungs with which to breathe.
"Barmetheus!" came the voice of his neighbor, Caroline Carpenter (1817-1842).
"Be a dear and help me find something?" She did this every night.
Well- not every night, but most nights.
Alright not most nights but often.
She did this once in a while.
"Barmethius are you still at that poetry are you?" She responded to his silence.
Prometheus Barclay (1819-1856) hoisted himself up onto his feet, his knees creaking something awful.
Setting down his quill beside the muddy soot which passed for ink this side of Mausoleum Row,
he set to the task of climbing six feet up and out of his place of rest.
"It's not poetry Mrs. Carpenter." He replied begrudgingly, shaking the dirt from his knuckles.
She lay there as she always did, peacefully in the wedding gown in which they buried her.
"Let me guess, your ring gone missing again?"
"Now why anyone would write anything but poetry I'll never reckon."
She rattled her teeth together in the way skeletons tend to do instead of smiling.
No cheeks, after all. One learns to make due.
'When last did you see your ring Mrs. Carpenter?' He offered gently,
making a show of looking here and there,
behind her headstone,
under tufts of clover,
betwixed bewilted bouquets.
"Mayhaps you last saw it whilst walking in a golden glade?"
"Mayhaps I did, chance I did lose my ring in a golden glade Mister Barclay?"
"but no. no I think I seen it since then."
"Perchance you last saw it whilst ambling among the river reeds, Mrs. Carpenter?"
"S'pose I did, s'pose I did lose it among the rivers reeds, Mister Prometheus."
"but no, no, I think I seen it since then."
"Do you suppose you had it on night's eve, at lastly setting sun, Mrs. Carpenter?"
"Had I had it at sunset, Good Prometheus, I 'spect I'd have it still."
"Perchance as you suspect, Friend Caroline, if you so inspect you might find it so?"
"Well so it is. so. it. is. Lost it here on my finger all this very time!"
"Why thank you good neighbor 'Metheus, and so so sorry to the trouble that I've been."
"No. No trouble at all, Mrs. Carpenter. No trouble at all."
"long as all what's been restored."
With a grunt Prometheus Barclay (1819-1856) climbed his way back down.
Back down to his final resting place.
And he again took up his quill, set it to page, and wrote.
Last I heard he was there, writing still.