An old man whispers softly,
Bowing before the old grey stones,
Tears falling lightly on the brim;
Petals falling to the earth.
His fingers feel the coarse of death,
The cold stone, with words so heavy and grim,
Carries with it life, coursing deep in its veins.
A life now forlorn in the earth below.
Dressed in stark formality; his respects for the dead,
He yearns for the warmth in his hands,
The grace of his feet; the light of his head,
One last dance was all he asked.
Now waiting in the familiar silence of years come to pass,
He rested his eyes and let his head fall;
Quiet was the day when his heart followed suit.
Yet, in his redolence a golden tune had filled the yard.
And the gold had spread, captivating and encapsulating,
The leaves the flowers, the stones and fences,
All veiled in a vibrant hue of a time gone by,
Ethereal was the hand that guided him through nostalgia’s sweet haze.
Now vigor had taken him: embodied with life he stood,
The hands he so tenderly held once now returned to him,
Warm were their touch, though living they were not;
He knew this, his eyes closed in reverence.
The gentle tune had guided their sways,
With revived vitality he made his dance with death,
Graceful were their swings that led the ball,
Elegant were the strings that filled the hall.
With reluctance he made his final twirl,
Dropping her deep in a final embrace;
The music crescendos to finale,
Sorrowful, he lets a longing, loving smile escape.
Just as well, she escapes his fingers,
The breeze whispers softly the words of lovers;
Tender was his smile now, he opened his eyes and looked high above,
Not questioning where or how, but grateful beyond love.
He ran his hands on the cold stone once more,
His fingers feeling the smooth of love rather,
Those words now carrying with them the world he’ll leave behind,
As he walks down the green, cut path;
Leaving the graveyard for the very last time.
