Pellets of snow hiss.
They whisper against brown leaves
Gathered at the feet of icy monuments.
As eddies swirl about branches
And sift through freeze-dried weeds
Like invisible, listless fingers.
So Quiet, this place.
So peaceful...in a hollow, wretched sort of way.
So Quiet as old man winter roams
Among the aged and crumbling tombstones.
Between the moss covered mausoleums.
Around the pitted and tarnished urns.
Dusted by snow, they turn pale and ghostly.
In the silence...in the deepening dusk, they stand.
So quiet, this place.
So peaceful...in a hollow, wretched sort of way.
Then suddenly...a gust like a gasp among the pines.
Dead leaves scurry into the darkening shadows.
Startled by the heartbeat of one
Who ventured into the forgotten cemetery.
Anxious murmurs stir the treetops...who?
Who...who goes there?
The living soul meanders among the stones.
Pausing now and again.
At once aware of the resident hush, he glances about.
Is anybody there? He calls out.
Anybody?
The silence gathers itself into deep, deep pillows.
Deeper and quieter.
Face to face with a mystery he cannot see,
He gazes upon the obvious and listens
To the snow whisper and hiss.
Strange how one can feel so alone
Yet not quite alone at the same time.
He turns to go.
Back through the frosted, iron gate he leaves
Feeling the quiet eyes of silence on his back.
Those peaceful eyes.
Those hollow, wretched eyes
Of the forgotten cemetery.