The World's Freshest Graveyard

The world’s freshest graveyard sits

In a clearing in a forest.

The tightly twisted trees offer space

Only for the darkness to reach forth

Its hands, desperately grasping for

All it may corrupt and cradle.

Deafened silence reverently rings out,

Cracked only by the thud of bodies

Dropped into their ditches and holes,

Buried together merely six feet too high,

And with headstones standing a musket tall.

Smoke-fumed fog rolls over all

Like ghosts of boys laid sprinkled out.

Blood quenches the ground like a flood

While flowers bud at the foot of each grave.

And the sun rises as it does each new day.