They had two faces, those places.
The graveyard with its cold, bleak headstones. Lined straight
in perfect rows. Granite pinpointing where memories ended. Green grass rolling
away, waiting to swallow up more dead dreams.
The cemetery with stones vying for attention. Reaching
high, proclaiming the owners greatness or set low, bearing an ordinary tale.
Its craftsmanship the show of their family’s life. Lives condensed into a
handful of letters. Stories and tales of old life held captive by its headstones.
The graveyard and the cemetery. So many lives returned to
where they’re from. Waiting, for their glory or their doom.
