Leaves falling on a plot of earth,
grass growing greener than the rest.
Flowers laid down and forgotten,
respect for a deeper meaning.

Snow falls on a plot of earth,
covering the epitaph of a memory.
The cold from above doesn't match,
the cold that resides from underneath it.

New grass grows in a newborn season,
plots measuring six by three evident.
Fertilized by the passing of another,
etched in stone, fading from memory.

Sun shines down on a cemetary,
as more flowers drape by workers.
How lonely these plots are to the living,
but there's always room for more.

11/07/2005

Author's Note: This is just spooky, but watch the seasons in a cemetary. Grass always grows greener over a grave. What was that saying about greener pastures? yeesh...

Posted on 11/07/2005
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