Written in Quincy, Illinois

Fresh cut grass sticks to my toes
as I wander through the grounds
Pumping the water from the well mostly used on those
Who have passed ten, twenty, one hundred years or more
I wonder if their stones are still visited by people who loved them well.
I lie in the grass and sing old songs
And wonder if they would care to hear
My tone deaf voice ringing through their long-decayed ears.
The ashes that you buried here don't stay untouched forever
The stones will weather, change color and shape.
All we turn into is mother, beloved, or brother
Some names and dates with a simple line
Hoping God will see we long to be divine.
But the tomb you built will crumble or sit alone and suffer
The same fate as you when blood was pumping through your veins
The phrase "not forgotten" covered in grass and stains.
But we all win the prize of the same exact fate
Whether were scattered, or buried, or shot into space
So don't let someone's poetry about our simple human ways
Bring you stress or worry when you are breathing still to this day.
Something I love about people is we're all so unique
While also connected though we may speak
About others in dark and dreary light
The thing about human compassion is it doesn't go down without a fight.
There's always somebody there to help you feel alive
To live the life you were given until the day you die
Because we don't know if it will be tomorrow or further down the line
If we're only living in fear of death, will we ever really thrive?
So walk through graveyards and write the thoughts that come to mind,
Or go to work but don't let your life be a damper
Because your time is precious like a baby's beating heart
So please, for your sake, pull life apart
At the seams and resew it in a fashion that will fit
So you can keep working through the dirt and the grit.