The Stone
It stands, the stone, a cold gray, a grave
Marker, etched, engraved, branded by date
And name.
Alone tree, a dark elm, covered in yellow
Leaves of fall, a blanket of sunshine.
A contrasting of irony, death and life,
Side by side.
Beneath no life, once alive, remnants
Refuge, buried under ground.
A silken lined chamber, of white
Elegance, a coffin death's santurary.
Holding nothing, but
Skeletal bones, of the forgotten.
Do angels weep for the dead,
Do the dead weep for themselves,
Within their shallow, earthen prisons?
Warmth or chill, remorse's for-get-me-knots,
Regrets petals falling, from the reddest
Rose, lain against an inscriptions crept.
Within each depth of layered soil,
Is colors light brown unto darkest black.
Here light fades by the inch, until nine
Feet equals the leveling point, of no return.
One mourner, one priest, saying a spiritual
Farewell, to the diciest.
In reverences pondering, with a quiet
Moments pausing, for respect,
Two heads are bowed
In prayer.
In humanities photo albums, you'll
Find know mention, or mark that this soul
Has made.
Say but one a stone brick, etched, with
A date and a name.
As the Autumn leaves, are blown across
An unvacant neglected site,
A spirit lingers in the chambers, of
Heaven, awaiting for the lone mourner,
To embrace him with a thanks, to be
Remembered at least by one.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
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