Bronx Cemetery

*Credit for the photo taken goes to Andrew Bishop, which was actually taken in Timaru, New Zealand.

Bronx Cemetery 

 

Will we never stop 

Looking for kindness from those who aren’t going to give it?

 

Standing at the edge of a Bronx cemetery 

Miles upon miles the stretching stone plaques-

Loving tokens for the dead. 

I told the man at the bar I loved Keats night before last. 

But can’t remember a line 

I am a lonely wanderer of the city streets 

Even if I’ve 

learned how to survive them- 

The lines of the trunk of mahogany oak 

Are so amazing, telling an age, a past 

More ancient and strong

Then the flashiest Herculean noisemaker. 

And stands without speeches. 

 

It’s quiet here with the dead, peaceful serenity casting upon 

The shadow of death. 

Where those no longer troubled with light 

That is the glare the living eye stakes

Into a box far more permanent, wretched, and futile 

Than the one that is dissolved in death. 

Why can we not be like those in the Bronx cemetery, 

Resting peace, for past this life 

That pumps the blood with hopes, dreams, ardor and passions of rage 

That are never realized, just-

Wait, the statues tell us, for they are the 

Masters of Late.