Cemetery

Wilted flowers, empty alleys, pilgrim winds and grey tombstones
Holds the hidden cemetery for the melancholic soul.
Memories of passing moments are engraved on each tombstone
For the person who revisits, feeling evanescent, null.

He travels the world forgetting some of them, but he returns.
Every now and then, he visits and remembers who he was,
What he chose, what he experienced, all the people whom he met
And that’s when he stops. He feels like it all was yesterday. 

He looks at them with mixed feelings: happiness, sorrow, regret.
When did they all turn to cinder? Nostalgia. And something else.
Realising what they’re made of, he feels powerless. For they
Are all dust—just like his being. Might not see another day.

Crestfallen, he starts to ponder on his life and what he is.
In the silent cemetery, lonesome winds scatter dead leaves.
Cemetery for life’s moments—numbers growing every day,
Until only one large tombstone—with his name—will take their place.

– Patricia