6 feet beneath
The broken slates,
The souls roam
Naked and grieving.
Their monologues,
Sacred secrets,
Scattered by wind
Across this green glade
Speckled with
Headstones cloaked in
Grief.
Occasionally,
And funds permitting,
The manager arranges fresh flowers,
Oft forgotten with time.
The broken slates,
The souls roam
Naked and grieving.
Their monologues,
Sacred secrets,
Scattered by wind
Across this green glade
Speckled with
Headstones cloaked in
Grief.
Occasionally,
And funds permitting,
The manager arranges fresh flowers,
Oft forgotten with time.
I'm meeting so many talented poets in this year's A to Z. In this poem, you created a vivid picture in my mind with so few words.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much Shonna for your kind words
DeletePoignant and moving imagery.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much Carver
Delete