The Kirkyard

Our time is September.
Through the overcast graveyard,
Humidity runs thin.

What hastily rushes by my ears
are the remains of that summer wind.
Male and female voices march afront,
Casual adherence, in death thence they depart.

Niphredils ring by the church,
Farewell bells still clear as a morning.

Lo -- what is this?
So sings the southern belle,
Diva, born into misfortune and guile.

In your aria of Hades
The ears of my autumn jumpers shiver;
Half a heart captured in
1880 B&W.

I wish I had gone with you then.
But I remain,
Trapped in this cursed immortality.

Gaping for rest.