A poem I wrote while thinking about my nightly cemetery walks at South Park…

The Cemetery

The hard, uneven asphalt worms its way through the grass.

There are stones: shiny, lichen covered, broken, towering, hidden.

It’s silent and peaceful, but bustling at the same time.

What are the stories behind the names?

Some forgotten, some adorned with artificial remembrance.

For many, branches and leaves have sprouted. A root system established.

For some, however, the roots have withered. Who will remember them?

I fill with sorrow and grief for the forgotten stories.