I’m not nostalgic for the days when things
we’re different because I know deep down
they weren’t any better.
I can just picture what it felt like in the present
almost instantly in spite of all the years
I haven’t even been there.

I like the statues in the cemetery and how
they try to make the place seem sort of epic
or at least alleviate the reasons left to visit.
She had an umbrella hung over her shoulder
while she stood up on the hillside looking down.

The rain was good to her; it hid the signs
of crying over dying names that no one
would remember like they promised to.
They’re all too busy trying to bottle
up the lightning, without the work it takes
to climb atop the clouds, to even think about
those masses that will never see tomorrow.

The muddy ground stuck to our shoes
like it was trying to escape what
it kept buried. The trees all looked
like they were praying in the same way
people do when they’re afraid,
or how a memory gets angry
as it fades.

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