Our Piece Of Ground

Pacing

within the rusted iron fence,

ornamental,

crooked,

wraiths, we were once living.

 

Granite,

disappearing beneath the weeds,

flowers,

vines,

tall grass blown flat by the breeze.

 

Rolling

hills of green grain ripening,

swaying,

flowing

with barns and silos.

 

Necro

sanctuary, our piece of ground,

ashes,

dust,

to which we’ve returned.