Tears fall,
Black clothes shuffle;
A preacher speaks.
Relatives weep,
Friends console.
Nobody can fix this hole.
Songs are played,
And flowers wilt,
Ever so slowly,
Only to be thrown away
And yet replaced
At the cost of money,
On Sunday morning.
YOU ARE READING
Graveyard Tales
Poetry"Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them." ~George Eliot
