Behind the locked fence
Crimson red as blood
an imposing barrier that marks the entrance.
The entrance to the last home of those to weak
to be on the fragile side of life and death.
The thought leaves a vile taste in my mouth.
Faded stones.
Impressive and proud.
Old, green with moss.
Rough.
Shiloutes of a life once lived.
Shiloutes as unique as the deaths they mark.
Others sharp and clear
But uniform and monitone.
Rounded tops and straight sides.
Each closed doors with no keys.
As I walk by a set of graves
I crunch on the lifeless grass.
I turn.
A flicker of life.
A pen contains the panic.
I plod closer. Unaware.
Claustrophobic space, confined.
I finally see.
A spotted clone of an older animal.
Ears large, body compact.
Fragile, timid.
A white flag flying wildly, signaling.
Small chest heaving with panic.
I feel its heart rise up and swell in my chest.
A fast pitter patter and a panic I can't contain.
A stutter step and a leap.
Finally.
The borrowed panic fades
As the fawn gets farther away.
Curriosity pokes.
The air smells damp and fresh
I notice as I examine the pen.
That contains the last visual remains
Of a couple depicted in a cameo
A shining ray of happiness
In the sticky heat.
For eternity their faces
Turned towards each other
In the most joyful expression
Ever seen on a grave.
And with that I leave.
I leave the old, proud tombstones
Their differences which I love
I leave the new graves
Their sites leave no pictures in my mind
I leave the soft foot prints left by a fawn in fear.
I leave the soft faces
Of a husband and wife forever in love.
I leave the entrance.
The entrance to many a persons last home.