Ashes in the Garden

Graves in thirteen straight platonic rows, Wilted flowers in contradiction. Nine widows still show up every Sunday, Little girls visit their fathers until the day they join him. These are the ashes in the garden, Memories of days that have been. These are the ashes in the garden, Days forgotten and nights relived. Stormy nights and December chills, Leave the paths empty and souls lonely. Sometimes the bouquets keep their place, Long after the flowers evanesced into oblivion. Many people visit once and don't return, Often just to see a sullen place like this. Inspired dismal gothic poets, Writting under the metal ivy archway. A priest comes to bless this place every now and then, But no one ever disrupts the ivy growing upside the graves. These are the ashes in the garden, Memories of days that have been. These are the ashes in the garden, Days forgotten and nights lived. These are the ashes in the garden. Written November 17th, 2001 © on Nov 17 2001 04:29 PM PST   20 • 0 • 1