As I stroll through the rusted heavy iron gate, broken and chipped gravestones stare at me.
Birthdays and death days are engraved, everlasting memories carved on a stone wall.
Dead patches of grass and an empty field only add to the somber mood.

The fog wraps the stones and memorials like a blanket in the cold of November.
Moonlight shimmers down barely making it through the Weeping Willow tree and landing on
the broken graves.

Screeching from the sky, which clouds make them unseen, the bats screamed from the
direction of the tallest tree.
The hooting from the owl on top of the grave startles me.


Does a grave of someone who’s life was tragically ripped away lay where I stand?
How many people walked by this graveyard remembering those no longer with them?
Has anyone ever disturbed any of these people from their eternal sleep?
How many tears were shed in this very spot by?


The Colonial Cemetery tricks my mind making me feel as though someone is watching me, but
as I turn around and see big yellow eyes staring at me, I realize that Mother Nature has yet again
played another trick on me.



Shriek



shrIEK



SHRIEK