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Innovation­game

A grave is but a grave


A grave is but a grave,
a mound of rotting leaves;
nothing more remains, save
brown petals, of the wreaths.

Two muddy pools of rain
upon the well-trod’ grass
are rippled once again
by wind alone, alas.

Ageing, ragged clouds dash
across the leaden skies
and rain begins to lash
a pair of saddened eyes.

A mound of earth at twilight
in cold December’s gloom
e’er trapped ’twixt day and night
would frighten death of doom.

The war howl of the wind
strikes fear into trees’ hearts
and while they quake, the fiend
tears them a thousand parts.

The old oak’s ageing limbs
creak ’neath unceasing strain
that rain and biting winds
unleash in their fierce pain.

A carved and weathered stone
has yet upon the grave
(thus harmonising tone)
to stand amongst the brave.

More desolate place to weep
could no man ever find
than all the souls asleep
’mid Winter’s raging fiend.

So to grieving stand,
a man is but a slave
to thoughts of touch of hand -
a grave is but a grave