It lay in drifted flurries on the barren path,
Covering the stones in silence –
Quieting them.

There’s something special about these monoliths –
Half-eroded, worn-out, and tired-looking…
Like they too have seen too many winters.

You’d have thought the patterned ivy
Would have textured them with twisted shapes by now,
Intertwining the gravity of repose
With the tranquility of respite.

Were their lives faithful to their testaments –
The dead still stones representing life?
Did they truly do them justice?

It settled quietly,
Covering the stones in history,
Clouding the bones in mystery.


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