Weaving through row on row, in the hope I get a spectral show.
To all those dear departed, who wandered on to better homes.
All those lives that once had shape, now mere names scralwed into stones.
Alas, was it all for naught? Only to be claimed by the chimming bell.
All thats left inside, a storm which I cannot quell.
Yet, your story is not done, the last page has not been written.
Each time one is remembered, the spine will only thicken.
Visiting each and every day, a new bunch in my hand.
With each passing year I learn to accept, not disband.
Weaving through row on row, I live in hope for that spectral show...