A fragrance of untimely reckoning.
The serpent’s tears cleanse the desert.
The cayote dances at the crossroads.
It’s fangs untethered churn the flesh  
Which tender so lush rinses the golden plain.
Purple mirage.
The necromancer holds his bid
In this auction of souls.
The reverence of the
Thief whose hand wails the fated coin.
“I, good sir, bid thee my honour and star.”