Poem about graveyards and such... |
I walk among these tombs of old that vie for my attention that tell the stories of the dead, as their ghosts demand recollection. But other things are found here, beyond the sorrow and the pain; I look closely and discover a quiet beauty does remain; there are treasures to be found among the graves of this old garden: butterflies and fireflies and memories forgotten; behind the twisted gnarl of trunk near the crumbling stone of tomb, honeysuckles grow and fill the air with their perfume. Amid the thistle and the brambles, a fountain still remains; the stone is cracked, the well is dry but it conquers its domain; an ancient tree where lovers carved a pledge of love eternal; sweeping branches with longish arms hid acts that were nocturnal. The wind still carries echoes of children laughing among the grasses; and here, some antique bottles that held honey or molasses. An ancient swing still sways in a languid, hopeless breeze; rusted chains and fragile frame squeak a tune of melancholy. A ramshackle of a dwelling, its walls covered thick with vines, guards this hallowed ground as it stands the test of time— The past is but a window of tomorrows of yesteryear, these remnants mark a simpler time before death took those so dear-- And as I walk among these tombs of old that vie for my attention, I see other things are found here too for marvel and revelation; I step among the graves to pay homage to those long gone, while still I note the joy and hope of tomorrows to come along. |