www.whyville.net Dec 29, 2008 Weekly Issue

Times Writer

The Graveyard Song

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I see you're scared. This place is not meant for the living, but come closer. My lips are so dry; I haven't had a kiss in so long.

And baby, I know you've seen too many corpses for your torn and shattered soul to bear. I've seen the dead and watched them in their restless sleep. The poor souls, they don't know what they've become.

"Oh, if only you could hear that song . . ."

I know you're scared of me. I know you can't stand the pain, but we're both lifeless inside. The graveyard is my home and it's calling me forward while you linger behind.

Oh sweetheart, do you remember the sun? Do you remember how it used to send down warmth and light up our world? I remember our love, and I remember the fires that raged on for endless days.

And I remember the snow. I remember how it sizzled as the blood dripped from my open mouth onto the tiny crystals underneath my barren body. And I remember the shots. They rang through the air like church bells.

Those were the days.

I know you're broken, so am I. And I know you hurt because I can see it in your eyes. I know you're bleeding because I'm dead. I can smell the blood on this bloodless night.

I know you can still taste the poison on your lips.

"Oh, if only you knew that song . . ."

Can you hear my cracking voice, calling through the night for you? Darling, it's dark here under all of these bodies. I'm never gonna get out and you're never gonna be free but honey, I'm still singing that song.

"Oh, if only you could sing the song of death. If only you could taste my lips. If only you could hear the cries of the people as they lay dying. If only you could smell the blood . . ."

It's not so bad, the dead welcome you. It's so cold up there, come down here where there will never again be a bloody day.

I can hear your heart pounding, and I know you love me.

You're so beautiful.

And honey, I know you're dead inside but so am I.


"Father," I said, "you cannot stay here."
I pointed to the corpses around him; they too wanted to rest here.
"I see my son. I do see them. Let them sleep. They haven't closed an eye for so long . . . They're exhausted . . . exhausted . . ."
His voice was tender.
- "Night" by Elie Wiesel, pg. 123


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