Fairmount
How calm the sound of snow that's falling
Soft upon these lonely stones
As if the north winds now were calling
Sleeping ghosts from restless bones
Some think this yard of graves as eerie
Filled with silence and with woes
Where souls departed wander weary
Chained to earth and seen by crows
I've seen some come with flowers weeping
Doubting God as they lament
While others deemed the dead as sleeping
Waiting for the Lord's advent
And some would do the most appalling
Cracking headstones, tagging hate
Yet still the snow would be there falling
Falling calmly on our fate
-jwm
A Brief Side Note:
I don't know what others think, but for me it's one of the most weirdest reversals that I personally experience in life … attempting to create something that, when brought into being, immediately begins to recreate you! I swear it's astonishing, amazing, and really surprisingly scary-cool.
I'm referring here to writing in general, and poetry writing in particular. Almost every time I begin a poem it takes on a life of its own. I'll even catch myself stuck on a single word that I'm trying to 'force' into the poem, and the poem sits there flintingly resisting me until- and this happens more than not- I give in and go with the poem's momentum.
Anyhow, I had ideas for this poem that went entirely unfulfilled due to the poem's own life, and just thought I'd share that with you. Hope everyone has an awesome Valentine's Day and a great weekend ... happy Friday the 13th.
