Potter’s Field

Jutting from black soil
in regular patterns
Like the ancient teeth
of an unspeakable monster
Worn brick
and weathered mortar
Grass no one mows
in a garden no one weeds

Cracked stairs on a hillside
leading to nowhere
Faded inscriptions
on crumbling structures
The occasional visitor
kneeling in respect
by a narrow path

The setting sun
painting the horizon
as shadows grow long
A sense of the unknown
How could it not be?

Eventually the moon will rise
bathing the stones in pale light
and the dead will keep watch


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