Member-only story
In The Midnight Cemetery
A poem
Three days buried. Those two lads
were movie-wise, avoided plots
which yielded bones or sludge.
The church said it would be my rebirth,
that I’d be planted like a seed to grow again.
Oh, for the safety of ash in an urn.
I could not have been more defenceless,
but they severed my hands,
tossed them in the dirt where the fingers
curled like sleeping worms.
My old bones shattered numbly
but I offered up no blood, just
fixed my staring eyes upon their faces.
The crumbling headstones sponged away
their laughter, their frantic panting
soaked into the patient, waiting darkness.
No matter how they tried,
the past and future kept its sticky grip.
Eventually they ran and left me
as naked as I entered
and silence was my final blessing.
(Written after reading a newspaper report of two youths vandalizing a grave.)
