Poetry/Verse/Gate Copyright Protected, ID 06-1557-092-22 All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written June 22, 2023 Submitted to the Standard Contest, Any Poem sponsor, Robert James Liguori, Judged 06/23/2023
First Place
The gate to the old cemetery is rusty and old, though once upon a time is was elegant and gilded; ornate with filigree tracery ornamentation, now, it is decaying, fragile, yet still beautiful to me. I push to open it and the gate creaks, groans, moans; and sighs an objection. Stepping into the cemetery is like entering tranquility, the green wraps around me like a warm cloak; the majestic old trees are like a protecting canopy, I am awed by all the hues of green I behold. The birds are non stop, oh how divine are their songs; many headstones are in ruin. I begin to walk a worn path looking at the stones, unable to read the inscriptions, I find that so sad; yet, still some have flowers either planted or bought, oh such a peaceful place it makes me want to weep. I hope my resting place can be like this old cemetery; full of green peace. Then, I retrace my steps until I stand at the gate, pushing to open it creaks and moans again; and did I hear voices whispering, impossible I think, I turn expecting to see someone standing there. Pushing the gate, I hear the whispers, is it possible; or is it impossible.
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