The graveyard breathed beneath the rain,
a choir stitched from loss and pain.
The headstones stood like tired teeth,
guarding all the dead beneath.

I walked between the names in stone,
thinking of the ones I’d known.
The wind recited every grief,
through dying flowers and autumn leaves.

Yet death did not feel cruel there—
only quiet, stripped, and bare.
A solemn truth the earth repeats:
all living hearts eventually sleep.

Still, life insists on blooming wild,
through shattered hope and hearts defiled.
Even beside the graves we tend,
the soul still searches for transcendence.

— Kiana Jimenez, Poetic Bipolar Mind