At rest

A graveyard,
on a summer night;
A headstone,
in the moonlight; Sits.

Broken,
decrepit,
mouldy,
and withered;

With a forgotten,
old,
rotting,
corpse, inside.

Buried,
decaying,
lonely,
and lost;

The ghost
of a child,
watches
yonder self;

His past,
his present,
and future,
at rest;

He isn’t.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar

Pen it... or aaa type it. u know what i mean.

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