The Cemetery

A poem

On the hilltop near the golden horizon there sit gray obelisks towers of fractured stone and gleaming scarlet flowers that chant the silky melodies of those who lay below the grass

The obelisks weep silently for what age has brought upon their faces: moss and cracks dirt upon bouquets names weathered down to gravel acres of unturned soil

At nightfall winds break upon the hilltop’s gates and send forth siren calls pleading for harmonies which rise and fall like waves and sit silent immobile when time strikes its ebony hammer upon the forgotten tombs of those who have been locked inside its ticking crypt