By Richard Eric Johnson
Gnarled roots creep beneath
The old leaning trees still shading.
Faded epitaphs and names from other eras
Hide now on tilted, fallen, weathered stones.
Stark are the remaining angels and
Obelisks trying to stand this stillness.
A small stagnant, algae-thickened pond
Meditates a barely discernible sky above.
Insects crawl, buzz in flight and
Beg a swatting of the hand.
From this point one sees an old road of
Crumbling asphalt stretching for neighboring hills.
A grand new super highway drones
Somewhere out of sight.
No one has been here
In a very long time.
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