There is a cemetary not too far from here where dead children rest in shallow graves. The grass is always wet with dew and teardrops, the ground littered in bouquets, nostalgia, and loss. The statues in the cemetary cry only when it rains and addicted insomniac teenagers swear the eyes follow them around. You can hear the ghosts of children crying out for their mothers, mothers crying out for their children, and husbands and fathers crying out for whoever listens. Moss hugs the headstones of the lecherous. An old crabapple tree drops poison fruit on the graves of the gluttons. A still blossoming magnolia tree drops pinkened petals on a memorial to veterans. Who knows what grows in the shadows of tombstones? Exobritant angels mark the graves of prominent deceased, a poor man's stone reads only "He was loved." What sun or Father would shine on this morbid village? The moisture in the air is like the moisture in a widow's eyes, it chokes at the life of the few who are unlucky enough to attend. Eulogies still echo in the coffins underground, listen and you might hear a life story.
Lyrics submitted by midnightclown