It Was My Wish

I slowly open the old, rusty cemetery gate that groans, it squeaks and creaks in the still night, the trees are swaying dark shadows, reaching out for me- I walk a path strewn with fallen leaves, they crunch beneath my feet echoing. A sudden wind takes my long raven hair, it whirls around me like a dark velvet, warm cloak. The headstones go on for miles in rows and rows, names engraved, cut into cold stone, voices of those gone whisper softly, but I journey on. I seek a stone that bears my name. Statues of angels turn and weep, their tears wash me like gentle falling rain, in the distance a mound of red roses already decaying. This my resting place- I should be dwelling in peace. I lived a short life and died young, and in death I am beautiful, but I linger still. I was a poet. I seek the poems, I wrote my words in blood, in journals my many poems still exist, words written that should have been buried with me. it was my wish . . . _____________________ May 6, 2020 Poetry/Imagism/It Was My Wish Copyright Protected, ID 20-1249-240-03 All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France Originally posted January 14, 2017 Submitted to Brian's Choice 5 Contest sponsor, Brian Strand First Place