The tall gates of the Colonial National Cemetery rising over head are guarded by what were once beautiful angels but are now withered by time into the demonic forms screeching and howling late at night in children’s nightmares.
Once inside, the skies seem to have turned from the bright cheery blue, to the heavy gray that death so often brings.
The pail green Spanish moss acts as the hands of souls reaching down from the heavens towards their long deceased bodies.

The mossy grave stones glisten in the soft sunlight almost as if the sun and the stone rage in war.
The long, wet grass brushes against you legs as if they were the cold hands of the unmarked dead clutching at your ankles in jealousy of both your ability to reach for the sun and you identity which was so unwillingly taken from them.
The sun tries its best to penetrate the fog and warm the blood of those just beneath the grass, yet it will never succeed for long ago the blood ran dry and the muscle and flesh rotted away leaving nothing but the skeletal remains.

Screaming in eternal silence, the mournful soul’s cry is never to be heard again
The airy silence creeps inside my head to explore every dark and twisted crevice of my mind.
The seemingly endless stream of silence coats the inside of my lungs, forcing out a raged breath of despair for the corpses that sleep just beneath the surface.

Are we really so different, the living and the dead? The dead lay still in death while we lay still in life, making no progression to a better world. The dead stare blankly with eyes the see right through your soul and we stare with eyes so lost of life we might just be confused for the dead ourselves.

The graves leave a sense of nostalgia, pulling me back to a time seeming almost before time itself.
Melancholy saturates the air as time races on with vines over growing everything and tree limbs reaching out to steal away the lives of any who dare wonder to near.
These archaic memories that once grew wild and free now meet the grizzly death of a tree in mid-winter.

In this old grave yard the hands on the clock seem to tick back in time to when the soil was freshly dug up and a coffin was slowly lowered down, but also forward to the advance of man kind where the cement will be laid right over these bodies to ensnare them to a life scratching at the stone until their fingers are bloody and raw.
This old grave year seems to be forever moving both forwards and back wards in time, leaving it forever…
Trapped
Trapped
Trapped