There are sounds in graveyards.
Earthen sounds of sorrow and surrender.
Sonic suppositions and wailing gypsies.
Terror of impermanence.
An impasse, but not passive.
Hang around long enough and you train your ears to listen.
On the fringe of life, abutting, and right up against it.
A city of ruins, leading paths to a suburban eternity.
Invited patience sublimates itself to the alpha regret.
Sinister doubts press courage from beating hearts.
The busy silence teases out the denied emotions of Faustian bargains.
Legions of lifeless bones, marked by dust and stone.
A marathon sprint to stillness.
Perpetual motion, dispatched to be oblivion.
Authoritative immense silence speaking volumes to those not willing to look.
A distant buzz of lawn-grooming engines, drones on.
A lulling drone; consistent.
Cars passing by on the periphery, allowing measurable distance to be heard.
Rushing toward a graver situation.
Whistling past the graveyard.
Tenants without complaints, barely registering.
Rotting remains, animate the six-feet deep dioramas of death beneath our feet.
Worms, et al, explore yawning canvases.
A subterranean bacchanalia.
Mourner’s tears ant farm tunnels in the shoveled earth.
This offends the dead, but no one understands why?
Perhaps grief humors the living, despite the noise of the dead.