The Stone

It stands, the stone, a cold gray, a grave Marker, etched, engraved, branded by date And name. Alone tree, a dark elm, covered in yellow Leaves of fall, a blanket of sunshine. A contrasting of irony, death and life, Side by side. Beneath no life, once alive, remnants Refuge, buried under ground. A silken lined chamber, of white Elegance, a coffin death's santurary. Holding nothing, but Skeletal bones, of the forgotten. Do angels weep for the dead, Do the dead weep for themselves, Within their shallow, earthen prisons? Warmth or chill, remorse's for-get-me-knots, Regrets petals falling, from the reddest Rose, lain against an inscriptions crept. Within each depth of layered soil, Is colors light brown unto darkest black. Here light fades by the inch, until nine Feet equals the leveling point, of no return. One mourner, one priest, saying a spiritual Farewell, to the diciest. In reverences pondering, with a quiet Moments pausing, for respect, Two heads are bowed In prayer. In humanities photo albums, you'll Find know mention, or mark that this soul Has made. Say but one a stone brick, etched, with A date and a name. As the Autumn leaves, are blown across An unvacant neglected site, A spirit lingers in the chambers, of Heaven, awaiting for the lone mourner, To embrace him with a thanks, to be Remembered at least by one. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN