A car door slams,
when my destination is reached.
A gate, enclosing generations of
secrets, creaks when moved.
A bell chimes four times,
ringing in the new hour.
The Earthy smell of
freshly cut grass and roses
linger around my nose,
taken in by my lungs.
My steps crush fallen leaves
as I gently walk around.
My eyes take in the many
shades of grey on green
along with purples, yellows, and reds
spread about on the grey.
My fingers scrape against a grey slab
worn away and rigid from tears.
To the right, is another slab
smooth and shining in the sun.
Off in the distance
a large tree sits,
with branches whispering in the wind.
The leaves watching the fallen ones,
before falling themselves.
The wind softly sells faded stories
of the worn names on slabs
no longer distinguishable.
Flags wave with pride
saluting the fallen soldiers.
Paper windmills spin around
with bright colors reflecting
the stolen childhoods
of children who never
had the chance to live,
but now rest in dreams.
The moon rises,
bringing in a muted light
that illuminates small details.
The crisp air tastes of musk and
the sky is now at dusk.
I can feel a certain presence.
My favorite place, the only place,
that follows acceptance.
This was written during my freshman year of high school (2016) as a part of a poetry book project. This poem in particular is about my favorite place, the local cemetery. My poetry book had a theme of accepting yourself for who you are, and it is no coincidence that acceptance is the final stage of death.