Cypress trees and a pallid picket fence

bracketed the local cemetery.

A  black hearse


the locals winding journey.


Dreams and duties

all buried.

Pains and proprieties

now put to rest.


Senility ,  suicide, malady  or murder…

Lives well spent or lives wanting more…



Bolsters, cairns , cenotaphs….


Some with flowery epigraph and headstone

Others with none just weeds overgrown.

Some  decked with flowers

speckled with the morning dew,

Others cracked and forsaken

with none to repair anew.


The locals stood with withered faces

wearing pale blue,

The good in heaven , the bad in hell

they swore by lore.

Alas, but who knows the truth

if death settles the score

to live and tell!




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