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…

My mind’s a haunted house some nights, With flickering halls and nervous lights. The floorboards creak though no one’s there, And fear sits brushing my hair. A portrait whispers, “Don’t go near.” A mirror says, “They know you’re here.” I want to leave, but every room, Invents a fresh dramatic doom. Then morning comes with…

Illustration by David White How can mornings be so still, so kind?The sun rises from its hiding place,Yawns across the trees, its warmth aligned,As birds sing praises, filling empty space. No voices echo in the air today.Not even laughter, just a quiet tune.The peace that holds this early hour at bay,Will soon be lost beneath…