I suppose the happy are dead
The broken are unliving
I rest in graveyards, under clouds
Watching the world spin
Twist fingers through the waving grass
That grows around the graves
Ivy weaving over crumbling stones
Letters faded and worn now
But still a stone, standing
Holding up the ceiling of grief
For the body locked beneath
They're happy places, graveyards
Resting grounds for noticed souls
Cherished in life and loved in death