At The Gravesite...

With labyrinths of thought and blind alleys of regret 

Openly carried like scarfs, 

In their hands some mechanical bouquets 

That should last all forgotten visits.

The bereaved bearing their tears and yokes, 

Dark faces stung by rays, trampling through mounds of silent graves 

Stuffed with remains of those presumed rested. 

Their sweat drips on dust 

And out here many might have felt immune to death 

With wild imaginings of longevity - 

But dreadful of death’s inimitability.