Graveyard

 

Graveyard

In this place,

Every stone’s the same;

Except for yours.

Each overgrown with weed,

Inscriptions disguised by years of dust and filth.

In the pale of the moon

There is no hope of finding

The markers of these souls.

Only yours is different.

Your stone, cleared of weed

Your stone, polished

Your stone, garnished always

With a single red rose.

Somehow he always gets here first.

Even after death,

Your lover still manages to cheat me,

Of you.