Sharp Shadows

Sunlight slices through broken stone,

letters white and fierce against the dark.

Graves lean into the brightness,

bare and unashamed.

Cracks spill dry earth beneath my feet,

the sharp edges of shadows

punch into the cracked dirt.

Death stands in the open—

no cloak, no hush.

I trace names with my eyes,

the sun burns their edges hard,

a daylight glare that won't soften,

like something unfinished, staring back

from chipped marble slabs.

The cemetery holds its breath, not quiet,

but waiting, wide-eyed in the heat—

all the stillness braced for noise

that never comes.