The Graveyard
I stood in the graveyard all alone,
With no-one else beside my ship,
But nature seemed near to me,
As it was marked repeatedly hip.
Rows and rows of specific dates,
Epitaphs of stories set by chat,
With the deceased person neat,
As the relative in the talk bat.
Birds were there, flowers budded,
Lush grass reminded me of growth,
And development was respected,
By an understanding of us both.
The liveliness of it and the lividity,
Of the greenery brought me home,
Made me sit in my opinion to share,
The views of him that did roam.
Death is not commented upon,
By death, or nothingness’s void,
By non-entity or by no feeling,
As death we don’t need to avoid.
Our living brain pertains always,
Cognitive wheels drive us to town,
Our connections by death’s reality,
Will only bring us sense, renown.
The cemetery bid me stand, feel,
Gave a megaphone for my emotions,
Death does not mean silence cold,
But active interactions and passions.
The deceased one’s pride, pleasure,
Is that you take the talking podium,
And express yourself by their death,
By your model of ‘em, plasmodium.
And death bid me welcome also,
In my right to free speech, voice,
Because it needs me paint, dictate,
The relationships of my choice.
No-one can criticise a memory,
Slate a scene between you, them,
Only fear of damning exposition,
Will see someone allege mayhem.
Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2016
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