The Bone-yard
bury me in the bone-yard by the riverside
where the mourning fogs permanently reside
lost in time is its bleak unconsecrated name
matters not, who cares, not they who’ve died
there the sun feels is an unwelcome intruder
banished, forgotten names on tombstones hide
abandoned chapel ruins of false idols reach
in faint supplication to some false idol’s pride
sumac and weeds are roses on the death beds
richly fertilized by tainted salt teardrop cried
‘tis in this place my soul will find contentment
no longer burdened by grief mankind lived and lied
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Sheila
Be always safe,
Karen
Blessings,
Christine
Axilea
and to answer the into YES!
I do feel that belonging thing
or something really close to it
and a definite curiosity
I really love the essence in this bone-yard
of your poetic pen
Visuals Unearthing
Vickie
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.