By J Ann Crowder

The death hills rolled in clay
 
Silvery, sheen and sunken stones
 
They seem to whisper amongst a darkened, musky air
 
As night lights lushly soak earth’s molded, black duvet
 
There is history written upon the silty bones’ each fiber—written in a language we cannot read
 
Only our spiritual senses decipher some untraceable lines echoeing through a skeleton’s thick, dried marrow
 
Souls’ umbilical cords detached—gone into an evaporation
 
Nigh, through veils and unseen portals beyond the visible
 
Truths usher in with time’s stirring dust
 
Like notes uncomprehending; still, touching my inner most untouchable parts

Written November 30th, 2017. This poem was perhaps intended to be written more around October. This is a little more dark and haunting but I wanted to write and this is what came. Death and graveyards. I have strolled through an old graveyard at night in upstate New York. Being from the west it was a surreal experience. I was thinking about it while I wrote this poem.

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Robert L. Martin
almost 2 years

Graveyards, what people don't want to talk about, but are as much about life as life itself. They are there waiting for us. There is no way to avoid them. That was a beautiful description of yours. I wish I knew as many words as you

Nelson D Reyes
almost 2 years

Graveyard, a reminder of our mortality. Haunted we are by it, our mortality. Graveyards our next abode. A matter of time. Acceptance is all we can do. This will help make sense of the surreal experience seeing the resting place of our fellow mortals. Love fave. Thank you.

J Ann Crowder
J Ann Crowder
almost 2 years

I’ve always loved old graveyards. So much genealogy there.

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