The iron gates stood, skeletal and stark,
Against a sky the color of old bark,
November\'s breath, a whisper cold and deep,
Sweeping through pathways where the dead men sleep.
He entered slowly, head inclined and low,
His shadow stretched, a mimicry of woe.
The graveyard hummed, a silent, earthy choir,
Of lives extinguished, dreams consumed by fire.
He was not here to mourn a specific name,
But drawn by morbid curiosity\'s flame,
To wander amongst the stones, a living ghost,
And ponder fate, mortality\'s cruel boast.
Each granite marker, marble, or rough wood,
A testament to lives misunderstood,
Or celebrated, loved, or filled with pain,
Now summarized in sun, wind, snow, and rain.
He stopped before a weathered, moss-draped stone,
The inscription faded, almost overthrown
By creeping ivy, claiming it its own.
He knelt, and with a dampened, trembling hand,
Cleared away the verdant, seizing strand.
\"Eleanor Maye,\" the letters struggled through,
\"Born eighteen eighty-two, died nineteen-two.\"
A single decade. Ten fleeting, precious years.
What laughter shared? What sorrow, joy, and tears?
What dreams conceived, what hopes that took their flight?
Now just a dash, connecting dark to light.
A tiny scratch upon the face of time,
A whispered echo in this mournful clime.
He felt a pang, a sorrow sharp and keen,
For Eleanor Maye, he\'d never seen,
Whose existence was confined to this small space,
A birth, a death, and then... oblivion\'s embrace.
He moved on, past a larger, grander plot,
Enclosed by iron, meticulously wrought.
\"The Abernathy Family,\" boldly read,
A surname etched on all who slumbered, dead.
\"Charles Abernathy, eighteen sixty-five,
Nineteen thirty-seven, he ceased to strive.\"
Seventy-two years. A longer, fuller span.
A life of power, wealth, perhaps a plan
Successfully achieved, or dreams denied,
Now leveled by the earth, where all subside.
He wondered what Charles Abernathy had done,
What battles fought, what victories he\'d won,
What legacies he\'d striven to create,
Now fading memories, sealed by somber fate.
And then he saw a stone, stark and severe,
Unadorned, with sentiments unclear.
\"John Smith,\" it simply stated, plain and bare,
\"Nineteen-oh-one to nineteen sixty-eight there.\"
A common name, a life perhaps unknown,
Unremarkable, a seed that hadn\'t grown
To towering heights, but nonetheless had bloomed,
A quiet life, in sun and shadow roomed.
Perhaps a father, husband, friend, or son,
His daily grind, till life\'s long race was run.
No grand pronouncements, no embellished praise,
Just John Smith\'s dash, marking his mortal days.
He walked amongst the stones, a silent seer,
Each marker whispering tales for him to hear,
Of merchants, mothers, soldiers, poets, kings,
Each relegated to what the graveyard brings.
A farmer\'s toil, a doctor\'s healing art,
A teacher\'s wisdom planted in the heart,
A lover\'s passion, fierce and burning bright,
Extinguished now, consumed by endless night.
He saw a child\'s grave, tiny, neatly kept,
Toys scattered round, where loving mourners wept.
\"Lily, beloved daughter, gone too soon,\"
Her dash so small, beneath the pallid moon.
The injustice stung, a bitter, cruel twist,
Her life a promise, tragically dismissed.
He thought of all the laughter, all the tears,
The hopes and fears that occupied their years,
The triumphs celebrated, sorrows bravely borne,
The lessons learned, before that final morn.
Each life a tapestry, intricately spun,
With threads of joy and threads of darkness done,
A unique pattern, never to repeat,
Now faded hues, in silence bittersweet.
He pictured bustling cities, vibrant, bright,
Where each of them had walked in morning light,
Oblivious, perhaps, to this eventual place,
Where earthly struggles find their slow surcease.
He questioned what remained when breath was gone,
Beyond the dash that marked where life had shone.
Did memories linger, whispers on the breeze?
Did souls ascend to find eternal ease?
Or did existence simply cease to be,
A fleeting dream, lost in eternity?
He found no answers in the weathered stone,
Just silent echoes, whispering alone.
The wind picked up, a mournful, chilling sound,
As shadows lengthened, creeping on the ground.
He felt a kinship with these sleeping souls,
Bound by the fate that ultimately controls
Each mortal being, rich or poor, or grand,
Returned at last to this unyielding land.
He pictured his own dash, inevitable, sure,
Between the dates of birth and final lure.
What would it signify, that tiny line?
What stories told, what actions would define
The man he was, the legacy he\'d leave?
What joys embraced, what sorrows did he grieve?
Would anyone remember him with love,
Or would his name be lost to skies above?
The thought was sobering, a chilling weight,
To contemplate the closing of the gate.
He turned to leave, his heart both heavy and light,
Aware of life\'s fragility and might.
He\'d walked amongst the dead, and found a truth,
A stark reminder of impending youth,
And age, and everything that lies between,
The vibrant moments, fleeting and unseen.
He stepped outside, into the fading day,
And vowed to live with purpose, come what may,
To fill his dash with meaning, love, and grace,
And leave a lasting imprint on this place.
For in the end, all that we truly own,
Is how we choose to live, before we\'re sown
Beneath the earth, where silent legions lie,
Marked only by a dash against the sky.
He took a breath, the air crisp and so clear
And walked back to the world, to what he held so dear.