The grave thinker

Some spirits peek around corners into past lives; looking for a bit of time, and a reprieve from the cold marble slabs which imprison them. Maybe I was there once, the wrong person visiting the stranger’s homes, staring through the stained glass, not knowing the lonely shapes were looking for someone else. Would I go back in time? Probably, but with a clearer sense of where I am and what I’m doing. These steps should not be taken in jest. The cynical world revolving nonstop. And I know some of these souls led bad lives and I know some led good lives. But here they are now, for whatever reason, all assuredly long gone, and the really old ones still cling to patchy yellowed grass. The headstones are collapsing and frail (like the old bones in earth there). Yeah, next time I’ll walk quietly and speak softly, for I’m on their turf, in their world. And no matter if I knew these people, I know they are resting now--thousands of them--and I will tread lightly on their ground. Some day I’ll be there too, maybe not exactly here, but in a place just the same.