Headstone

This is death.
Cold breaths
antithetical, yes,
to mid-summer’s
hammer the
beating sun,
so oppressive.

This is the end.
Where great
forests quiver
from biting winds.
Their branches shiver
stripped to nakedness
throughout winter.

This is death.
At the end to
an ugly year
more dreamt
than lived.
Some buried
with nothing
more than headstones
to remember.

This is the end.
Where small
souls quiver
in light of how
little they are,
knowing headstones
await at some future
time; the fickleness
of history remembering
only the great of the small.

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