There something quite still and tranquil among the lost souls in their graves, their silence is powerful washing the woes away,
the sounds of the robins chirping high up in their oak trees, and the crow's menacingly perched squawking on the old unloved graves.
Flowers are withering and left to rot away,
and the unkept graves are falling where no care or respect remains.
But among the old and tattered graves, there are very few that lay, loved and cherished looked after still to this very day.
And while some bloom with roses and are made into shrines, with tiny windmills blowing and ornaments and chimes.
Next door lays a person who once was just as loved,
now their grave is crumbling and is hanging on by the mud.
Their name becoming unreadable as it fades into the stone,
the one loved verse of respect is vanishing just like their soul,
I sit to the abandoned stone and wonder what she was like,
how long did it take before the grave was left to die.
I pondered on how many generations it's been since this woman seen a living soul,
I cleaned her grave up not knowing I was the women in the stone.