THE GRAVEYARD

Come take a walk
Through the graveyard
Of my head.
Where the ages of self
Lie buried deep
Dormant.... Dead.
Stop and look
At the inscriptions etched
Upon the stones.
Hear my voice calling
Soft on the wind
And rattling my bones.
My childhood distant,
Laughter and learning
In mists of the past.
Only returning on dying bed
When I'll cry for my mum
That breath my last.
The marbled teeth
Rise from manicured grass
Though not in ordered row.
Haphazard, the jutting fangs
Between bleeding, sensitive gums
Of living earth they grow.
Sit in the shade of my memories
Under a tree filled with fruit
On flaking wooden seat.
Where you can pick
And taste the the ripened flesh
My knowledge you can eat.
So visit this walking graveyard
Say hello before
Its too late,
The memory is fading
With neglect and age
Forcing closure of the gate.
Phil Hall  December 2013