The Cemetery

I like to take a walk,
in the cemetery by the road,
where daffodils grow
with epitaphs and crosses.

They know what names
they must bear. And what
say they must about their dead man.

People need a voice,
even the dead ones.
After all has ceased
and everything is absolutely right
something must be said.
The epitaph does that.

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5 thoughts on “The Cemetery

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