Peaceful last home, a gentle breeze.
Marble monuments, few flowers survive.
Bodies faded away, once riddled with disease.
On All Hallows' Eve, tradition says souls arrive.
At midnight, Bo and I open the rusty gate.
Light a candle, watch the fog creep in.
Our voices are raspy, a quiet muffle.
Houses of death tend to chill one's skin.
Fear must not freeze my senses,
only a timeless city of quiet bones.
A serene calm helps defenses.
Holy silence from blessed stones.
Ashes to dust, such polite civility,
whispered thoughts, historical tranquility.
Most listen with grave respect.
My poetic musings, they do protect.
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