There’s a place I meet the broken dreams of those past.
On the way dried foot prints found upon the dirt path.
There, people come and go, frown and groan, not a place for the crass.
Honouring those still loved who during life couldn’t last.

The sun and night may daily pass.
Along with the growing and cutting of the grass.
These remains remain and will always have no life left.
But that doesn’t stop the heartbreak in people’s chest.

Engraved with words from those that still love.
Hoping that what they feel is seen from above.
Walking back through that dried mud path.
Our present never escaping our sorrow filled past.

Little ornaments and significant novelties cover the graves.
From tormented hearts, the gifts they once received or gave.
We all know that death is not something to be tamed.
So we write on, adding to our beautiful yet tragic tome.

On and on another page,
Recollecting those forgotten days.
When we write, we write from past.
With our life’s ink, that will forever last.

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