Hellhound's Comin' Poem by Justin Evett

A note played flat as night fell down,
the salt layed circle upon the ground.
Scratches marked accross the doors,
Screeching sounds along the floor.
For he stood alone in dread,
at fear that he would soon be dead.
A etched guitar,
a broken heart,
It seemed a joke, yet to him an art.
'The best of em' all' is what he asked,
for her a simple but sultry task.
A soul for music,
A soul to choose,
walking the road he had nothing to lose.
It was now time to pay his due,
as the hellhounds came around
he played his lonesome blues.