The dead

Headstones full of death, cling
To the cold earth in neat rows
Among the freshly cut grass.
Where the lilacs grow.

I have lived long enough,
To begin to feel an empathy
With these keepers of the deep.
I have felt their tears as they weep.

Who are the dead, but the afterthought
Of life. The shore to which the waves
Of living crash. They are nothing now
But the sole keepers of their graves.

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