Headstones sprout rock loneliness.
Flowers bloom like pallid flesh,
mushroom pale against brown grass.
Here is where we bury the past.
Dreams die, but the dead dream on,
trees blossoming in the night,
unseen against black metal skies,
silent hopes and forgotten lies.
Putrefaction, stale and sweet
lifts terrible in the twilight
assaulting absent numb noses,
decomposing twitching odors.
The mournful park of loss closes.