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Where The Dead Don't Mind...


would he mind
would she mind
that I'm sitting here
its quiet
I have my sketch book
I have my charcoals
for rubbings
I have my packed lunch
I have a thermos
it is so quiet here

only the shuffling of the wind
through the trees
sounds like whispering
I strain to make out the words

I'm careful here
don't leave any wrappers
little evidence
that I've been through
its their home
and I'm a guest

I step lightly in certain spots
I sit in between the raised beds
alone among them
meandering in my deep thoughts
wondering
is this where it all ends
don't put me here
when I am gone

it is too quiet
and it seems lonely
the the flowers here don't breathe
they're made of un-natural-colored plastic

the trees branches grow so thick
they're woven together like tatted lace
to blot out the waning sun

should I listen carefully
I could hear the twisting muddy river
lap at its muddy banks
the light is lowering
its nearly seven
later than I ought to stay

but its a safe spot
near these grave plots
no one visits
no bully wanders in
this is why I come
this is why I stay

the darkness is growing
so I gather up my belongings
inside my head I say good-bye
I think the silly words
I had a lovely day

my paternal Grandmother told me once
how she used to picnic with her family
in the graveyard
on Remembrance Day

but I'm nearly grown now
I shrink from family life
it isn't satisfying
it isn't safe

its loud and fractuous
its rarely ever quiet
that's why I'm here
some days in the cemetery
by the river's edge
where the dead
don't mind me
and it is silent
so I feel safe

for just one day.


LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM 7:53PM PST AUGUST 11 2019
AND ALSO FOR THIS WRITER/POET MELISSA A HOWELLS
AND ALSO FOR THIS LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED SITE TITLE
MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD
WRITTEN TO THE PAGE FROM OLD MEMORIES







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