Over the Rusted Vines

Jon Vreeland - Poet-Writer-Human

When I was a little boy, the graveyards looked more like playgrounds.

And I always wondered what went on when the sun went to rest; when the thousands of lights spread like a sea of yellow acne, on the dry black hills of Palos Verde.

And I still wonder.

I wonder if the corpses walk with the other souls who sleep where the floor is soft from the endless storm of tears;

(a floor for the mourners, yet a roof for the dead)

And when I hear the chain linked fence rattle in the night, I watch the well-dressed carcass crawl over the rusted vines and into the darkness of the quiet Avenue. Its muddy feet shuffle along the road and leave dark brown trails on the soil that is now covered with black asphalt.

And the occasional car speeds by, through the fog and mist;

but for some…

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