Theres a cross for every fifty plots
No visitors none to mourn
The ground is dry and stoney
The wind blows lost forlorn.
Its high upon a hillside
Beneath a rolling angry sky
Half dead trees remain
Branches drooped to cry
Its said upon the Autumn gale
You hear voices draped in rhyme
The growl of angry souls
Bodies dipped in lime.
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Author:
nephilim56 (
Offline) - Published: July 1st, 2023 03:15
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
Offline)
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