Graveyard


The graves are overgrown now

Covered in thistle no one thought to pull —

Unknown, forgotten by all

But she who sometimes comes there.

Those she once knew lie here;

She buried them herself —

They lie here unbeknownst

Even to themselves

Who are different creatures now.

There is no sorrow, no regret —

Only thistles she once pulled

And the tree who stands

Over them.

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