Monument
Moss grows on the old gravestone
mooring itself into the moribund marble
spreading like a syphilitic rash
garbling the name in shades of green
the velvet glove of a thief
slowly stealing the identity
of the dead buried below
The blurred image of a willow tree
all one can still see
engraved in the soft stone
weathered by more than a century of rain
No one remains
to miss them
to mourn them
to wistfully stare at an empty chair
erased from history
as if they never existed at all
whoever they happened to be
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