ink fades

marbled angels watching over cemetery plots beneath shade trees

covered with old dry crumbled pedals from once beautiful flowers

the light brisk of wind moving gently stroking tall green blades of grass

rippled soil like waves of sand brushed away by someone’s hand

honored saints to the most horrible no one knows where they have gone

they’re going home death is not for the weak to live is for the strong

a white cross to observe the loss or names and dates carved into stone

time set for rest and to be left alone sad tears water soil and nothing grows

a reap that we’ll never sow the hardest thing and always will be is letting go

on that day when shadows fade away when we will be spoken of as gone

some in a grave others in an urn life is working death is what we earn

knowledge is given lessons are learned decisions are made and choices burn