There’s a distinct lack of benches
In this cemetery.
Sinking down upon the grass
I rest my back against a friendly tree
The constraints of rhyme in poetry…
With no haste and time to waste
I taste rain upon my lips
It falls upon the page and blurs like tears
The tranquility of dusk’s onset
Bleeding away my fears
In the long shade of the chapel
Architecturally beautiful but cold bricks and mortar.
O, but I reserve my faith for you –
Unswervingly resilient –
The curve of your cheek more lovely still
And infinitely more comforting.
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