#gravestones
Staring at gravestones
Wondering what it is to
Exist, no longer.
Smell of sulfur,
Feel of bone;
Still as water.
May 30, 2023
May 30, 2023 at 10:08 PM UTC
"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
written.”
“ 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
the
reincarnation
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.
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 1:19 AM UTC
Death owns the mossed headstones
orphaned by time and muted stories
no longer spoken in mortal’s rockery.
Fallen epitaphs .... names surrender
to nature’s bloom and winter frost,
broken granite bouquets tied with wild roses.
Where pain no longer visits, peace speaks
poetry through meadowlark and aspen sigh,
souls long gone now rest as poems cradled
in the arms of Mother Earth.
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 5:37 PM UTC
Slipping in & out of gravestones & tombstones,
She whispers words upon the carvings
Sleep,
Sleep,
Sleep
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.
Sleep,
Sleep,
Sleep
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
Stone,
Words,
Silence
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.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
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.
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 4:41 AM UTC
A wind
A ghostly breeze
Kissing stone foreheads
Before screaming
In my ear
Dec 20, 2019
Dec 20, 2019 at 11:20 AM UTC
I am no longer here
or at least
it feels like it.
Sitting here
in the land of the dead
is too overwhelming.
Spiraling
down, down, down
but I'm still intact.
How? Why?
I'm immobile
like the intricate patchwork
below me
dead;
just like the cruel substance
that I'm made of.
All the gravestones are scoffing,
mocking the only emotion
that i am capable of;
GRIEF.
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.
PITY THE LIVING."
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.
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 3:58 PM UTC
wilting bouquets
at a gravestone
we are keen to point out the
spinach
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
bloom
through the cracks of pavement
your florets blossom
amidst sand
not our problem
we whimper from our manicured lawns
a dog ****** on me today.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 11:11 PM UTC