Overgrown With Vines

I've wandered this old graveyard a thousand times. Cracked and broken stones rise up like a long-deserted town's skyline, Each marking a last breath, heartbeat, supplication to God, Each the only reminder of a soul no longer walking this earth. The stones are old and weathered, worn grey with age. Much like the lives they represent, dates and names have faded, Absent hearts break and empty sockets witness That these lives, metaphorical and real, are overgrown with vines. It's a lonely town, that old and forgotten cemetery. Weeks, even months can go by without a single visitor. Our grip on this world and the people in it is as weak As a single thread in a spider's web: death's scythe cuts it cleanly.