The accidents only stopped when we put up a cross at the roadside.
We still don't know who died there or even when but the cross seemed to help them rest.
When words began to appear on its base we filled it in with a thick layer of plaster.
We posted about it in the local gazette, we thought we were calling out vandals.
How were we supposed to know?
Every day the words were back, that same careful cursive and the same attempted phrase.
I am not here, I did not die.
As common a poem as it may have been, we couldn't figure out the who, how and why behind it all.
Soon it became apparent that the words were being written from inside the stone.
Our torches wouldreflect off something moving, writhing about inside its concrete prison.
We still don't know who died there or even when but the cross seemed to help them rest.
When words began to appear on its base we filled it in with a thick layer of plaster.
We posted about it in the local gazette, we thought we were calling out vandals.
How were we supposed to know?
Every day the words were back, that same careful cursive and the same attempted phrase.
I am not here, I did not die.
As common a poem as it may have been, we couldn't figure out the who, how and why behind it all.
Soon it became apparent that the words were being written from inside the stone.
Our torches wouldreflect off something moving, writhing about inside its concrete prison.
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