I strolled through a disused graveyard,
In a soft-soled barefoot Robert Frost type of way.
The day had runaway
as though the sun,
outdone by overuse
Refused to shine a moment more
and vanished; clannishly allowing
not a single ray to stay.
But being well acquainted with the night,
for my nocturnal eyes are bright,
the sudden failure of the light
met pale and awed applause.
For night's illusions cast a glow,
like specters brilliance on the snow,
providing ample light to show
the world in silver-pause.
The night-shaped constellations
sketched their patterns,
unseen deft delight,
against the night time mantle-black,
their speckled points of white.
The archetypal nighttime fright
that keeps the candles lit at night,
seemed out of place amid those faded
ancient dated stones,
selected and erected witnessing to those
who might, be curious and well aware
that presently you may not care,
but days will come when strength
is rare and color's left your thinning hair.
Those sleepy hollow horrors
haunting children's bedtime stories,
usually seem frightful,
but now just allegories
living breathlessly
within the washed out cracks
of chiseled stone.
Illuminated by the vast
insipid light the moon did cast,
I wound my way through
death's display
to shake the dead hand of the past.
Cold and naked was that union
hand in hand a mute communion
faceless, nameless, leaning stone
that's all you've left to call your own.