All photos were taken at Elmwood Cemetery.
I: THE NECROPOLIS
The city is covered
In webs made of unused words
Fleeting from possible conversations.
Dirty and grey are the buildings
That stand in silence
While securing their positions as sentinels
That no one wants.
The knowledge is forgotten
And lost among moldy books
And shattered vases; destroyed
Beyond a point of pain calculated
In a cold manner.
The city is silent, occupied
By the dead who can appreciate such
Granite dreams, unfortunate that no one
Is there to smile.
A piece of paper hurries along
With starved breezes
To a destination even it is not sure of.
A necropolis, here and now,
Divided by the dead and silent.
Given to black coal wings flutters
The one who sees it all, the one
Named in foreign tongues as bliss.
Black, midnight, nevermore coloured
Tendrils creep and grow tightly,
Covering the once thought of webs
Of dissolution. Thorns protrude
Dressed in indigo, the forgotten colour,
The one that is sacred. They drip
Foul liquids onto the granite dreams, hissing
With reptilian sensuality and banal lust.
The winged one sees this slow destruction
Of the necropolis and smiles; the birth of the new dead
Comes only once in a lifetime.
Fallen stone angels cry tears
Made of powder and demonic thoughts,
Feeding the thorns to gluttony.
The Winged One sits and waits.
Help me. I have forgotten who I am.
Time moves like winds lost among those who have forgotten
And yet I am still here, watching over this place
As if I gave birth to it.
I never sacrificed enough or gave enough for this to happen.
Day and night have no meaning here
But still I fly from place to place, watching those
That no longer have eyes to see.
I am a vision before you; kneel and all will be saved
Under my cold hands that bring promise of a better life.
Death is only a matter of time, and soon, all will come here
To witness the birth of a new world, one filled
With the laughter of gods and the children of scorned goddesses.
I used to smile, before the winds changed their direction.
Perhaps now is a good time
To say that I was once loved. I still am
But not in the way I remembered.
Crumbling statues are now my comfort
For the dead are no longer a use to me.
Strange, then, that my ways are of burnt wings
Given to the fires that constantly feed and devour
The souls of the eternally lost.
I fly with wings made of tears from children
Who have lost their mother and fathers, sisters and brothers.
I fly to seek out what I know is already there
Among the rubble of the necropolis I call my home.
Time eternal is my gift to everyone
If only to remember me for a blink of a mortal’s eye.
I am She Who Stops, the one that instills fear
And comfort when there is none left.
Come to me, denizens of the shattered, and take my hand.
We will be there soon enough when the last flame dies.
III: THE DEAD
We are here.
Listening, listening, to those who keep us
Silence. Shattering, scattered, remember, remember.
Floating away like so many of us before.
A single flower. A backwards glance.
Something approaches us but we dare not more;
We have no reason to fear. Fear is of the Living.
The thorns prick our flesh, dusty and grey,
Slinking slowly away from us when they realize we are not their food.
We hear and we do not obey
For we are the unheard masses,
Clamoring, clamoring towards a better spot to view
The endless suns that bring us no warmth.
Falling like leaves trampled,
Desiccated, unworn, baptized and made new,
Forever, forever, we are silent here.
There is one who shall speak for us but she refuses to do so.
She is bored with us; she remembers the light.
Or does she?
Stone angels mock us at every turn
Amid the buildings of a distant past but still signal a future.
We are here. Wondering, wondering
Just when this will truly be over
And we can go home, home, to our loved ones
Who fly way above us with wings not melted.
No wax created, only the love that another showed
When worms fed on his flesh and gouged out his eyes.
A god died and we were not there to witness it.
A shame, shame, performing utterly fascinated
With the dance of times forgotten.
The stones that hold us here are not cared for.
We can blow upon them and they whiter then reappear.
Hades was never this kind to us; he loved his Life so,
Giving her the sweet, sweet taste of a fruit poisonous to us.
She remembered and it was all over then.
The city, our city, our Hell,
Carries us swiftly when she can no longer do so.
We are many with one silent voice.
We are many.
Never, never, ever born into this world.
poetry copyright 2010 Kimberly B. Richardson