Stout Stone Walls

The graveyard has become a park, a green city space. Surrounded by stout stone walls built to protect not the living from the dead. I guess they were built to protect the dead from the living. High walls no view in or out. No horizon, buildings all around. Paths made from old gravestones laid side by side, end to end. 

Statues abound, depicting sordid caricature of human forms. Their former splendour fading fast. Names on stones vanishing, wearing underfoot. All around heading for oblivion as sure as the bones beneath this ground, one day will be gone. 

My tranquil oasis today a swirling cauldron of wind and rain, leaves. The dead pressing against their ceiling. Me against the floor. The rest of the world against the walls. 

Magpie stares, crow crows, rat scurries, squirrel scampers. All struggling in the wind. We are the only living creatures within these dark strong walls. The branch above me bends and twists, contorted in the wind. I will the bough to break, come crashing down to the ground. Come crashing down and break this stone that traps me and rip off the chains that bind me. Release me from this hell. 

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