The Cemetery

The hard, uneven asphalt works its way through the grass.

There are stones everywhere in all shapes and sizes. Some are shiny, while others are lichen-covered. Some are broken, others towering above those that are hidden.

It is silent and peaceful but bustling at the same time.

What are the hundreds and hundreds of stories behind the names?

Some forgotten and some adorned with artificial remembrance. Gaudy almost.

For many, branches and leaves have sprouted. A hearty root system was established and flourishes.

For some, however, the roots have withered. Who will remember them?

I fill with sorrow and grief for their forgotten stories.