Place

The spirit of others permeate this place
Breaking through, an ancient anguish
Heard are voices within this space
Where death, denied, does languish

No matter how handsome this decor
All from before finds its way
To linger here forevermore
With muted breath, to have its say

Always, always, I feel their weight
As I save some semblance of peace
Is it me they seek to agitate?
Is it me they want to reach?

Could I feel less than fear,
As I attempt to make a dwelling?
What is it they want me to hear
In their language of silent telling?

Here is sensed the soul of what
Cannot be heard without recoil
Who never enter and never shut
The doors of their mortal soil

Here is sensed the soul of those
Who passed before in great turmoil
Who never enter and never close
The graves of their mortal soil!

copyright 2009, Georgette Jones