The Resting Place
Iron gates guard the entrance,
to the natural grounds.
Deer rest without any fear,
behind rows of mounds.
The pathway winds back and forth,
Sun hangs low in the west.
The spirits call out our names,
from ground that has been blessed.
In an altered state of mind,
making the proper signs.
We escaped mischief that day,
as the clock struck nine times.
We headed for the exit,
feeling like we had sinned.
With our hearts still beating fast,
we flew home like the wind.
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