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March 15, 2014

 

 

The rust has set in

around ancient nails,

exposed to the elements,

holding fast, twisted rails.

 

and rotting gates, at the

entrance to sacred land,

where fading words

on tombstones stand.

 

A once beloved wife

lies unattended

on top of her man;

both long since ascended.

 

The headstone crooked;

their plot now overgrown.

No ancestor’s names visible

or sign of existence shown.

 

And dogs, no sense

of reverence share,

just run amok

and are unaware,

 

that on the land

where they prance and frolic,

are many generations

where respect is symbolic.

 

Some kin will not visit;

they shudder and swear,

preferring to remember

loved ones as they were.

 

And so different are those

who cannot stay away.

They come with weeping hearts

each and every day.

 

On a new plot lies

a multitude of flowers,

with messages of condolence

in the deceased’s final hours.

 

Yet, when grieving mourners

from the graveside leave,

a scoundrel in the shadows

is waiting to deceive.

 

He gathers up the best blooms

to take to his mother,

as a peace offering

for some guilt trip or another.

 

So still, now the graveyard

under a darkened cloud.

The final resting place

for it’s towns folk, proud.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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