Gray Stone



While walking along,
they came into view.
Most of a similar,
slate-colored hue.


In the old cemetary,
they stood there like weeds-
unkempt and uncared for,
like forgotten deeds.


I gazed at them,
reading the names.
Finding in each, uniqueness,
tho all looked the same.


I studied the dates,
figuring ages in my mind.
Some died quite old,
others, long before their time.


A few lie prone,
knocked down, overturned.
Chipped and cracked,
till they can't be discerned.


They're faded, whitewashed,
some dusted with lime.
Or covered with a film,
of age-weathered grime.


So many stories,
buried there, under soil.
Silent tales of yesterdays,
in triumphs and toil.


And now, they stand there,
crowded, alone.
Lives condensed,
to what's carved on gray stone.


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Starward's picture

Excellent invocation