Where Life is Real

The graves are silent,

The darkness burns,

A gentle grief breezes,

Sighing of loss.

The well-tended grass,

Is cool and yielding,

Green and graceful,

Respectful,

And filled of resigned remorse.

It is a living blanket,

For the restful dead.

The graves are silent,

The darkness burns,

A gentle grief breezes,

Sighing of loss.

The changing sands,

Are offensive and vicious,

Vengeful and demanding,

Impious,

And scratch like pepper at one’s sight.

They bring the tears,

That blur what must be seen.

The graves are silent,

The darkness burns,

A gentle grief breezes,

Sighing of loss.

Deep streets sever the plots,

Hilled and cracked,

Wavy and gray,

Crawling,

Amidst the tear soaked automobiles.

The mourners inside are black against the asphalt's night.

The graves are silent,

The darkness burns,

A gentle grief breezes,

Sighing of loss,

A seeping sleet,

Clams the cemetery,

Where pain is felt,

Where life is real.