five points on the cemetery gate


in the bloom of the black rose, left to wither on the vine, untended by hands weary from thorn pricks, crimson hints beguile the blossoming scent


the cracked tombstone, weathered with faded carvings, the grass gone brown, plastic flowers bleached white as the bones buried six feet below


a soft song fills the air, she skips across the broken concrete, smiling joyously as she bounces past the markers, the crypts of granite standing in shadow


a cry of pain as knee meets unforgiving sidewalk, tears well as blood spills onto white cotton socks, the dead do not heed the cries of the living any longer


soft pink petals perform for an audience of one sad face, a silent orchestral movement if divinity and grace to blanket the plots of the cemetery with color


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