The Stillness

The tombstones
lined neatly in expectant rows
Brood, sentinels in the silence as

the still wind holds its fierce breath and
dares not to disturb the rain
plunging down from the yawning grey skies.

The droplets, mute,
hit the ground and perish without noise
Seeping down to caress ancient bones
lying peaceful, sleeping in the warm embrace of earth

While death joins the tombstones,
An audience for the deluge and the
soundless dirge,
So seemingly a normal man,
Drenched through and forever

Waiting.

Black hair,
soft as the feathers of carrion crows,
Skin white as his motionless subjects,
his wards and
somewhere amongst
the collective cemetary of all death,
Friends, family, as all men amongst the partly living.

Looking young yet timeless,
So fragile yet strong and
as delicate as the final breaths of tattered bodies,
but a lithe body enduring like
the iron grip of relentless endings.

A beautiful countenance,
Sharp, weary, yet a depthless black gaze,
surveys his boundless plain
and gravestones matching out into the
misted horizon,
Almost angelic and with
such peculiar unearthliness,
A drop of tenuous reality
in a sea of untamed dreams.

The rain ceases under the exhausted clouds and
The hallowed opens his eyes,
Bright with life in the
strange field of colourless graves,
and takes breath in the grasp of life once more,
Forever dying,

Yet always alive.