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.

Someone carved a face in that pumpkin,
and now it's perched on a stoop, grinning
with the same sinister grin the carver must have had
when he carved it.

And everything I recognize as expressive
(the triangular eyes, that big toothy smile)
is marked by a lack of pumpkin.
A red face of dead space.

And now I'm seeing just the opposite.
I see two spots where the eyes should be,
an open wound where the mouth once sat,
and a fire within, baking the insides.

A child's laugh is heard
Early one morning in May;
Along with the chains of a bike;
Ringing their song,
Harmonizing with rubber tires,
Humming against the street.


Alert as a bird,
The child rides away;
In a day so dreamlike,
And sings along,
With voice like the wildfires;
Seeking a friend to meet.  


The sun reflects on golden hair,
Fingers run though the chopped cut.
A youthful smile glows,
Complementing the sun, so bright.
Interrupted by the squealing of breaks.  


The child stops right there;
Not so childish now, but
The now faded smile shows
That the child is alright;
Although the child aches.


The child has fallen into  
The same May, accepting a different year.
The bike's coated with memories and dust.
The tire's out of breath and flat,  
And no song is sung.


Saddened eyes of blue
Accepts nothing but fear.
The laugh turned to rust;
And just to think that
This change has just begun.