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Ankita Dash May 2020
I’m all out of midnight phone calls and wilted rose petals.

I’m all out of throwing out letters out of windows and building cathedrals of sand.

I’m all out of the avalanche of goosebumps your touch caused.

I yearn stillness now.
I yearn indifference.
I yearn to keep my head above the water now.

And so, your eyes are graveyards and I bury all words unsaid.
taylor rice Apr 2017

Graveyards, scary
at night, scary at day,
Takes your breath away.

a dark and gloomy place,
where people hold their breath,
if they don't the dead creep
up on them, and they're gone

scary at night, scary at day, takes
your breath away.

to visit friends and family,
plant flowers and basely
Leafs, for they give them good

scary at night, scary at day, takes
your breath away.

to say hello, or bid farewell,
To say good morning, or goodnight.

the dead, yes there scary and hidden,
but they have untold stories, and legacies,
For they're the forgotten of many.

a dark and gloomy place,
bid your farewells, watch out
you could be next, as the graveyard
Whispers in the wind, you leave,
Nayana Nair Feb 2017
The breaths not taken are accumulating.

It mixes with the tears not shed.

Creates a poison that lingers in my thought

but doesn’t flow into my blood.

To keep my barely alive to suffer.

Suffer from a poison of my own making.

Slowly I forget

one small detail at a time.

I realize it only when I see this gap in memory

that my frail imagination fails to fill.

Words are slipping out of my hands.

My thoughts are no longer mine.

All the parks have become graveyards.

Where tomorrow died a slow, slow death.

And it slips into an even slower decay.
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
Our corner graveyard
Looks so inviting,
The lawns are cut,
There's solar lighting.
A wrought-iron gate
Is freshly painted,
Shade trees shelter
Graves of the innocent.
The Italians built a mausoleum,
Where pictures of their deceased greet them,
Looking full of vim and joy
At having pictures taken.
Beneath the temples, in the crypts,
Celtic crosses and brass plaques,
Olympians and outcasts,
All professions, our world's best,
Lie wasting just like us,
In their oak, brass-handled coffins.
The solar lighting at the graves is weird. It looks like a city from above.
Francie Lynch Apr 2016
I feel most alive
Walking and gawking
In a graveyard.
Nice walk today.
Talking daisies,
feeding grass,
and marble monuments
to the past.

Blackbird serenades,
painted bones,
the fox is screaming
a lovers moan.

The moon is rising,
waiting stars impatient,
***** crickets
their song so blatant.

The mud is cooling
as the breeze caresses.
Breath is fleeting
and darkness possesses.
Dreams of Sepia Sep 2015
I found you in moon-lit courtyards
amongst whispering statues of angels
& broken queer bottles

punk wind roaring in time's freefall
& Tagesspiegel newspapers
read in grave graveyards

the Plötzensee
now a pleasant place
to walk by

past the carefree
nudist sunbathers
in blissful summer

the Olympiastadion
almost forgetting
who it's maker was

but no not quite
nevertheless, good days
far out-weighing the bad
Plötzensee - a lake in Berlin near one of the former **** prisons of the same name

Olympiastadion - the Berlin Olympic Stadium which was first built on ******'s request for the 1936 games.

Berlin is a controversial place, still  in the process of overcoming it's past but it's a brilliant city.
Pride Ed Feb 2015
In marble, like moon; encased and cold,
I linger where you sleep. Long shed of decadent
purulence, your pale caress holds me still,
and I dream of your bones atop my
bones; our veins dying of thirst; the
worms making love to our oblivious corpses.

In amour, like rose; blackened in rust,
I shiver where we kiss.

Our lust becomes the dirt; our soiled souls moan.
We’ve become immortal inside the wood-rot.
Dark Valentine's Day prompt on allpoetry! ^_^
Noandy Jan 2015
The drooping sun stood across the wooden bow,
showering it with drowsy thoughts for the wooden boy
In the abandoned graveyards where pavements were abolished
Plaid plague nourished the jingling broken eyes

The graveyards of dreams and graveyards of clocks
Will deliver the nails of sorority locks
To cradle the soft heat of the drenched sun
To bring on temptation of demolition’s sons

Let’s say that the pavements of hopes were of pain and vain
The vines were vanity and the roots were dignity
If agony keeps us close to our core,
then drench pins on my head to keep me human
M Eastman Dec 2014
The stones of lambs – and folded hands
grass as green as Seafoam
summer sky – this place we lie
The flowers grow as brushes
to paint our fates
- in heartbeats
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