poppies.

graves cloaked in antiquity

and the poppies.

for some reason i feel a burning

a swelling

trace over the etchings on the grave of helen

who died in 1843

she was only seventeen.

for some reason

this is personal to me.

feeling the limestone

look to my feet knowing only 6 feet below

are her bones.

and from this spot

my field of vision grows

looking through a fisheye lens

its endless

the dead. a crop of bones and stone.

how sad that no one visits her anymore

Helen.

i hope

sincerely

there is more than this.