May 28, 2009

The sky was dark the moon was high.
The ground was wet and cold.
But the face of the angle lay cold and still as the cemetery grew old.
Spiders weaved the sliver thread along the crypt.
Where once the flowers grew.
And were loved ones wisped I miss you.
The stones cracked and groaned as time goes by.
And the angle thinks of the time when butterflies went by
As she stays and watches the departed.
The grave yard forgotten and all alone.
Whit an old oak tree its only shelter of the living and it’s alone.

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