On a wintry night, I passed the old graveyard.
Soil creep slanted the headstones.
The ‘forgotten’ of the town.
Locked up tightly with a padlock
As if to protect the dead.
Are they lonely I wonder? Or in The best slumber?
‘Here lies John Murphy, 1867’.
I could barely make out the inscription.
In time, ‘John Murphy 1867’ will be eroded forever.
There lays the forgotten who once, Played their part on this stage.
Now, Locked away for eternity.
God rest them.