Glistening ‘twixt the earthen beds
and o’er their marbled, granite heads
drifts of pure white fractals spread
to paint with sweet, angelic dread.
For here on chill’d stump, in snow,
before these gathered friends of stone,
I dredge forth my noxious woe;
to bleed in anxious, ram’bling tones.
Footsteps circle through the plot,
traces of my tactless thought,
as from face to face I sought
for answers out of ivory, wrought.
But no such truths could be exhumed
from such ancient, reticent tombs;
and none the wiser, cloaked in gloom,
I fled this terrible commune.