I lowered myself

into the round pit, covered --


with flowering thyme.

I like to write in the graveyard, I know people there
It’s nice and quiet, city sounds fill the air
A peaceful feeling comes over my mind
All of the memories my heart can find
I don’t see any ghost walking, I only hear voices
Some trying to say make better choices

I like writing in front of my grandfather’s stone
He makes me feel like I’m not alone
I look up, I see more stones of granite
All those names and dates, with no faces
Their memories are there, just in different places
When I finish and it’s time to leave
I’ll dry my eyes, stand quietly and grieve

I'm picking up

       What you're putting down

                   You didn't have to throw

                                     it

                                     at

                                     me.

There are multitudes

of faces, everyone has --


many more than one.