A garden of stone that will never die,
Each season ushering in new flowers.
The mounds of disturbed dirt, easy on my eyes.
For I know our newest seed has arrived,
In come the long black cars the; rite begins.
Each new seed carried and placed into dirt
By a black mob of pious grievous kin.
Stands around, chants their words, and slowly flees.
Time pushes on, the stone erupts over night.
The recent flower to the garden of stone,
It stands tall and strong, pleasing to my sight.
But just I know that the seeds never bloom
They only rot, in their firm wooden crate.
Over time, the hues fade and lose their magic.
The garden of stone stands to personify,
The loss of love and kin, how romantic?
Folks come visit after the gloomy rite,
But fewer and fewer take the small trip.
Now lone, the garden returns back to peace.
More seeds will come, the ground ready to grip.