there was no narrative
no pinnacle to work back from
just a cemetery in time
where stories were told
by the gloss on stones
embossed in modern font
a backdrop echoed
by unmarked graves
neglected on another front
by the skulls, mumbling
in shallow voices
of the heat of the midday sun
and the locomotion
by the station now abandoned
rust remembers the line
between the profane
and the sublime
life finds its way
!gda
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