Vaulted sky framed by trees
cracked with ice, dead.
A shell of the soul rises
cold. Remnants and
echoes of hymns hint
as wind-whipping through empty
windows. Monuments to forgotten dead
skew in frozen soil, littering
and punctuating hallowed ground.
Living figures slouch under stretching
doorways, dwarfed by their own memories.
Filing out of habit, whispered absolutions.
Their heads bowed, as snow and time fall
upon world-weary shoulders. They march
inexorably toward obscurity and
anonymous last rites.
1 comment:
Wow. You've taken something that could easily be cliche (the cold graveyard) and made this place come to life with haunting clarity. I'm especially impressed by your ability to make the reader feel the cold. Fantastic word usage.
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