Cemetery Of My Youth

Wooden crosses weeping their peeling paint broken and fractured by time Stood like remnants of carnage from a civil war signposts of man's ugliness from within Silent in death, guardians of their cause left in the farthest corner of a small cemetery that held no importance even to the church that owned it Who used goats to graze the wild grasses It was profoundly sad to the eyes of a young boy who looked and wondered About this cemetery of etched, buried marble and wooden crosses that moved with the wind Someone should have laid flowers Perhaps it's age, the crumbling crosses Maybe... no one was alive who cared for this sacred ground Not even the church