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Man May 31
Staring at gravestones
Wondering what it is to
Exist, no longer.
Smell of sulfur,
Feel of bone;
Still as water.
Payton Feb 2021
"You are a breath of fresh air."  He said
     in a way that was unlike the way
                                   the others had put it.
"You are new air and new earth and
                                   you are the words that have not yet been
                            “ You are the beginning and the ending of
                                              a story that could never again be told.
You are as fresh as the rising sun and the winds that
                                         welcome it sweetly across the horizon.”
And somehow I do not feel reborn when
                                                               I am around you. It is like you are
                                                   of some great ancient being, and
                   I am trapped behind the illusion that I am unique.
                                                My memories trapped inside a forgotten rebirth.
My words trapped behind
                                                pale yellow teeth, as if they are gravestones
                     challenging me that if I did speak,
                                                                    it would be the death of me.
This dream poem was written in 2016.
I don't remember the dream or anything in it! Glad I have this creepy poem instead! :)
Amna Khan Apr 2020
I am no longer here
or at least
it feels like it.

Sitting here
in the land of the dead
is too overwhelming.

down, down, down
but I'm still intact.
How? Why?

I'm immobile
like the intricate patchwork
below me
just like the cruel substance
that I'm made of.

All the gravestones are scoffing,
mocking the only emotion
that i am capable of;

Mourn I must;
that the woman
who gave birth to my father
the only anchor I had
that still remained
is dead.

The gravestones chant,
in a language that I can understand,
"All must die.
Mourn no longer
than necessary.
Forget the dead.

They are right.
But I will mourn
my deceased anchor
for a while longer;
otherwise, numbness
will take over my horizons
and there is no going back
from there.

So I bury the dead
but before I leave,
I do not forget
to dig my own grave,
for the time is inevitable
before Grief hands me over
to the unforgiving hands of Numbness
and I join those gravestones.
M Grant Teague Dec 2019
A wind
A ghostly breeze
Kissing stone foreheads
Before screaming
In my ear
I wrote this while visiting the memorial cemetery outside Terezín in the Czech Republic.
Sara Kellie Sep 2019
A florist stands guard at the overgrown garden of broken stone teeth.
  Where a million flakes of silver and white covers neatly laid out boxes of bones.
  Small, separated audiences quietly chatting to themselves, unaware that no one can hear.
  Where their cold grey words drip from frozen blue lips on a falling mist of old sorrow.
  The trees once in full bloom appear dead, reflecting all life around.
  Where the butterflies and ladybirds used to play, just as the bones in the boxes did yesterday.
Those in attendance file out one by one. They peer left and then right, realising the flower lady has gone.
And it's on their way home as the time ticks on by, the realisation that
one day,
they too,
must die.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Notes of Mortality.
zil Jun 2018
wilting bouquets
                               at a gravestone

we are keen to point out the
               in your teeth
flashing our own in mockey

there are graveyards in our closets
unmarked tombstones rattling
under each breath

& still we find humor in
your lack
grow vines of resentment at
your affluence

we were once all planted
in the same soil

not our fault yours
                                  had shade
not our fault yours
                                  wasn't watered
we shout as we

                                   s     t    o    m    p

on your leaves and pluck petals
                                  off your stems

and yet you
through the cracks of pavement
your florets blossom
amidst sand

not our problem
we whimper from our manicured lawns

a dog ****** on me today.
Poetic T Mar 2015
Slipping in & out of gravestones  & tombstones,
She whispers words upon the carvings
Well, in this slumber of death
You have earned this eternal rest
You were of the living but past to the dead,
You earned what eyes closed shut need
And that is rest.
My still, motionless friends
For this is eternal this moment
That death gifted, never worry what
Happens as you now reside in the
Fields of
Speak volumes, as tears fall like raindrops
Each misses that moment
But know it has passed.
Rest in your bed of silk and wood
As she slips in & out of
Gravestones & tombstones, she speaks to the dead.

— The End —