The feel of green moss which grows.
beneath those leather covered toes.
The smell of peonies assaults the nose
here where a gentler breeze blows.
Spanish moss and the scent of mums
a sound of a fife and those drums.
Bodies reduced to ash and crumbs
eerie silence which your brain numbs.
Towering stone angels and rocks
occasionally a tomb of fancy blocks.
Those seraphim that time mocks
no need for food, shelter, or clocks.
The fence of stone or iron around
by these barriers the captives bound.
Nary a whisper or even one sound
life disintegrates beneath this ground.
Here where the endless teardrops trickle
are those taken by Death Angel’s sickle.
© Copyright 2016 Mistress of Word Play. All rights reserved.