The cemetery is alive,
more alive than
the lofty woods that
glower around it,
than dining halls
that pump
bodies like blood vessels,
in an out — flex and
release
here, in the heat
the cemetery smells sweet,
perhaps a morbid
sort of attraction —
yet still she sits against
the headstone,
married to life
that was once,
once was.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
Stellular Scribe 