All the time in the world

a sunday graveyard walk

Here lay the silent ones
Rotting homes, cast in shallow graves of stone
Chisel to rock in perfect form

Creeping cautiously in three minutes of silence
Shivers shudder across shoulders
Silent tears, wail in loss loathing and fear

How peaceful the cadavers sleep, not uttering a sound
While strangers wander on Sunday walks
Wrought iron gates, shaded black to gray with dust

Standing naked among ancients, still fresh with breath
A cold bench to contemplate the unknown
Flowers to remember life, but its only time till they fall

Church bells at twelve, the world continues its pace
Time within these walls is a fruitless endeavor
I have all the time in the world.