I walk amid the dead,
My feet drag through frost
Persistent white tipped blades in spite of the blinding sun
As I slip between the trees, flocks of crows burst into the sky
Screeching and calling to one another they wheel through the air.
As their cacophony fades,
Voices whisper to me
Voices long silenced
Laid to rest before my birth
What could they possibly want?
Old names calling out to me
Names entrenched in this land two centuries at least
Labelled with chiseled rock.
I feel more at ease here than out in the world
As my breath makes steam in the bright frigid air;
Proof that I am more quick than dead
Proof of my fundamental difference from my decomposing companions.
What is this morbid fascination?
To tread between the stones
Careful not to step on the moss covered mounds in front of the markers
The peace in this place is complete
I should want to leave but I don’t
Sitting in the winter sun beneath a corpse fed tree
I wonder if ever I should rise.
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