Unfinished 1 Poem by Paul Brookes

moon lit mausoleums mute, grave thoughts on grave thoughts,
graven names multitudinousmagnum opuses written large in Gothic script.

gravel crunched paths weave between angel wings and dying wreaths
denuded boughs sough wind warped mantra
a single black crow sits atop spying gimlet eyed.

dead company's sometimes is better than the living,
the dead can't break your heart
yet crow and I are happy here.

solitudanal with only phantom thoughts for company
sometimes crow flaps away beating black wings
a metaphor for death,
that ever present entity that stalks the living
but he returns in his funeral garb to settle again.

there we sit, me on my bench and he on his bough.
some think it strange I find comfort and happiness here,
they shy away from death pretending it does not exist
except in the clinical space of the morgue.

The sun pierce the sky oft times thawing
a reminder that life exists with in the aged crumpled chest.