By Sandy Nichols
The grass has not been cut for quite awhile you see,
And the shadows on the ground are from that old elm tree,
And the broken headstones standing silent mark loved one’s final rest,
Telling living men who venture here that they are unwelcome guests.
A cricket sound in the night is the only noise that breaks this silent peace
For this place where we are at,
Is a place we shouldn’t be,
A place where dead men sleep under the glow of the moon and eerie calm,
While wilting flowers await the rays of the sun and the mornings dawn.