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In the Church Yard by H. L. Rippingale

Black as night, wings span as the crow takes flight from life's symbol of an end

Cold; hard and lifeless like the remains beneath, the stone stands to make amends

Words on each grey face stare back as footsteps thump like the beatings of broken hearts that once passed

Reaching beyond the eerie walls; life simply passes by and like the churchyard bells, the beauty will vaguely last.


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