I'd love to sit beneath the cherry blossom tree
Although, someone else resides below
Their spirit will hold it forever

The grass I sit on is fertilized
by hundreds of human bodies
What is going on underneath?
Do the spirits dance, drink?
Celebrate their freedom?

Under the birthstones
in the carcass yard
is where the flesh tombs lie.
Decomposing for three long years.
Eradicating memories,
dreams and fears.
Becoming next, the black gloop
treacle of putrification.
Now bones, just old bones
is the remain of what was once,
a spirit with a name.

Poetry by Kaydee.

Yesterday when passing by the cemetary
There was a small family gathering
maybe was a friend, a family member
Or an ancestor from long ago

Even though I can't really say for sure
Cause I actually don't know
Only was the way those few people
were holding each other close

There was a feeling like a butterfly
caught on a mild gentle breeze
And like those dandelion petals
flying unexpectedly past me

Was that moment on second glance
When I knew in depths my soul
Was someone they loved deeply
and didn't want to let go

Walking through the cemetary
I wonder very desperately
why each and every gravestone
lacks the name of the dead soul.

In a cemetery of broken dreams
and people who died too young.
Is a gravestone that reads stoically:

"Here lies the one who once sung
a thousand words every day
and a thousand words every night,
until she sang her last words
and popped a lung."

I can't believe these words I read!
What a tragedy it must be
to die before one
can ever complete the song they love.

Next to that burial site
of the singer with no name,
is another morose stone that reads:

"Here lies the one who took aim
at a thousand targets everyday
and a thousand targets every night
until he finally missed one
and made himself very lame."

I can't comprehend the pain he felt
as he worked so hard
and look where his efforts got him!
He shot himself.

Several concrete slabs down
is another grieving stone
It reads:

"Here lies the one who had sewn
a thousand stiches everyday
and a thousand stitches every night
Until they finally stabbed the needle
right through to the bone."

Why must they hurt more
when trying to fix themselves?
Now the art they created to wear
will never be worn by anyone.

In the cemetary of broken dreams
and people who died too young
are gravestones that share the essence
of who the unnamed soul was.