He wrote too much mean poetry

and now

people don’t stop by to pay their respects.

It’s quiet.

The lonely trees look like brains, with branches

reaching-out,

trying to form connections

with the empty sky.

Tall grass has gone to seed

Fireflies buzz over tombstones

like lost souls, searching

for where their bodies were laid to rest.

They worked in the dirt, and their ideas will grow out of that

like trees

that last for centuries.

The full moon is a flashlight

until it burns out for good.

Frost creeps up on death

like a beautiful glaze

until the thaw

and the sun

open up the grave.

Words walk out of that

to wake us up

and

bring us back to life.

6 thoughts on “Poetry Graveyard

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