A Walk through the Churchyard by Anthony Ward

There’s no room left in the graveyard,

Where I long to lie.

Not yet, you understand,

But when I die.

Such promise of peace comforts me

In this quiet place

Where the fair maids of February remind me

Of loves never flourished

Lying beneath lifespans

Hard chiselled into modest monuments

Lichened over lives lived long ago.

Where the yew presides over history,

Overseeing the monarchies

And inventions of man,

Witnessing the graves rise and sink.

Though, none now are new,

As people no longer care for headstones,

Their lives preserved in the digital epoch,

To remain animated beyond death.

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Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of establishments, including Shot Glass Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, CommuterLit, and Dear Booze.