A graveyard speaks in gentle groans,
While winds whisper to lonely hills,
Chilling stoic standing stones,
That display cold names departed,
That overshadow buried bones,
And shade the brokenhearted.
Climbing vines grasp as they creep,
Turmoil settles as winds calm.
Distressed decades drift to sleep.
A moment to rest anguished ages.
Yet dirt sown remains to reap,
Wisdom of forgotten sages.
Awakened, a dusty breeze enhances,
Fluttering leaves and stirring grass.
Lives lived are in these turbulent dances,
Men and women you may never know.
Their dreams, loves and lost romances,
Triumphs and tragedies of long ago.
Transformed, into breath -- inhaled by lungs,
Personal particles drawn from air.
Unpaid debts and deeds left undone.
Regret, anger, fear and despair,
Battles lost, exhale the same as victories won,
As do the prophet and the prayer.
Perhaps the body is not my curse,
Reality so fragile as to change with a gust.
I sense my thinking was in reverse,
If my soul's intuition is a force I trust.
Then I know I am not lived to death,
But dying to birth, the living dust.