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Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #1826282
This place is full of broken dreams, and no one cares ... but me.
Weathered Stones

As I sit among these weathered stones, my thoughts begin to wander.
For all the people lying here, whose fates were split asunder?

Amid those crumbling stones nearby, rests a girl named Mary Sue,
An eight-year-old, with dimpled cheeks, many things in life to do.

Who, thought I, would allow this child, to rest among the dead?
A life so gay, and filled with love, blond curls upon her head.

By that bush, there lies a boy, they called him Jim by name,
A ten year old, cut short in life, denied his mortal fame.

And by his side, there rests a friend, one Johnny Appleby,
I see them wildly climbing, on some mighty ancient tree.

Near that tomb of solid rock, the one with a broken cross,
A soldier lies from an ancient war, such a bitter useless loss.

His age it notes, was fourteen years, far too young for war,
The date upon the stone I see, is eighteen sixty four.

A mother lies beneath that stump, her face so sad and clear,
And in her arms, a resting child, who never tasted fear.

In that pile of broken stone, lies a man of many years,
Next to him, in that tumbled pile, is a baby weeping tears.

Over there, beneath that tree, lies a young and sleeping lass,
And near that stack of shattered stone, an angel in the grass.

This place is full of broken tombs, and no one seems to see,
The shattered dreams, of many lives, and no one cares…

but me.

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