A cemetery is a place very much alive

A scarlet heart protects the grave of an unknown soldier, speaking a thousand words whereas lips can only utter three. One heart in a section where fifty lay, surely placed with the most transcendent of loves.

A deep saffron graces the wings of a butterfly meditating on a branch, finding his solace before jetting out again. Black is careful to contain such an arresting color, for surely if it got out it will be forever marred in the paint section of some store.

Mushrooms lie in waiting under a tree that is so vividly yellow that perhaps they could light the world, should the sun ever need a rest. Such an odd shape these mushrooms, as if nodding to the cute, animated dinosaurs of centuries past.

A grasshopper leaps onto my lap as I’m lazily leaned up against a mighty oak. This serenity symbol rebels against the peace it spreads by painting itself fiercely neon green, a hue that must surely be the most unnatural of all.

A bug slinks through the tall grass blades, jet black with wings and an ants body, is it an ant or is it a bee? Sunlight releases the blue shimmer dying to break free from an otherwise majestic body.

Wild blueberry crops that graced my childhood are trying to escape by climbing over the fence. Those deep blue-purple dots are already dying, so they must find their way out.

Great white hotels housing guests resting up before the big party with its jazzy trumpets and heavenly singing, everyone needs their beauty rest you know. It is the cities that house the dead, not mausoleums, for

                 A cemetery is a place very much alive.