Poetry
Broken headstones speckle the landscape
beyond the distant grassy hill,
a bleak panorama hugged by a lowering sky.
Cold stone statues of all shapes and sizes,
chilled to the moss-covered bone, stand erect,
marking time with weather-worn words,
that record the passage of years.
A place of disasters, heartbreak, and crime
gathered here, forgotten by time,
in the graveyard of lost souls.
Here lie the lives that no one cared to hold.
Maybe the fear was too much,
or we just didn’t care enough
Stones, shaped to stand, and dressed in white,
mark where they lie, mute through the years.
Not voiceless though, for there are those who remember their fight.
When called on by one such in need,
their steadfastness appears.