garden atmosphere

At last she’s entered the
True masterpiece of an
Unfolding moment

While several hundred
Yards away they mourn
Beside a marble tomb

Stretched into colorless
Sobs and dark abyss

thought
Mercy became a friend in the 9th grade because although I was inwardly withdrawn she’d made it a point to reach out in kindness. Knowing the reach takes purposed effort my memory placed her in my magical garden where accumulated are familiar images delicately gracing the stem altars of unbroken faithfulness fed in returning soil. I don’t know why I keep a journal of everyone’s deaths; I only know her name has been added and that when I’m buried it too should accompany my measured haste toward the same unearthed dust.