Picnic in the Graveyard

Graveyard Angel

Ripped gingham drifts beside dusty gravestones.
Dark-dipped wings land onto crepuscular moonlight.
The lugubrious smoke sings to the tune of gloom,
Annihilating the living flora, blossoming nearby.
A graveyard angel guards the lamented,
Forever contented—in heaven.
She hunts after skull faeries invading tombs
And struts her stride in black, strapped boots.
Her corset is designed by bleak trim shine;
Convenient for wallowing in theatrical fantasia.
As demoralizing breaths awaken the dead,
She hums the hymns of crossing over to the other side,
Luring helpless souls from grim reapers’ scythe eyes.
Ground grasses change to needled conifer spikes.
Through the past, present, & future hexes,
The angel of redemption uses her reflexes
To save her territory against desecrated domination.
Mascara edged skies, signal bloodshed on its demise.
Waves of tundra speckled feathers flee,
Lined with discolored dying dreams.
Remote picnics in the graveyard become stricken by silence.

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