The graves,

clitter and clatter,

as they reach toward the sky,

from six feet underground.

Screaming out in pain,

from not being able to leave.

Their coffins,

clitter and clatter,

as they try to scratch their way out,

push open the casket,

to fall into the hands of freedom.

Knowing they have been forgotten,

since the first shovel of soil,

hit their prison.

The bugs,

clitter and clatter,

as their tenant,

disturbs the cemetery silence,

every night.

For someone to take their hand,

and take then away from the darkness,

that they’ve spent too long in.

Some souls,

grow to hate,

while other grow to accept.

The quiet peace of the graves,

that align this land,

breaks every night,

as the spirits of the dead return,

to clitter and clatter,

six feet under,

clawing their way into,

an impossible sanctuary.