One response

1. 

   messed up thought out

   Jan 13, 2026

   a lovely shot, a reminder in so many ways of the hidden magic and depth we can find in small things.. I hope you don’t mind but I was moved to write some things in a poem.

   The grass is a green mouth,
   hungry and savage,
   swallowing the stone
   inch by silent inch.

   It does not care
   about sanctity.

   It rises like a tide
   of emerald water,
   drowning the name,
   the date,
   the memory etched below.

   Here sits the gray angel,
   blind and wing-heavy,
   hands pressed together
   in a cold, eternal plea.

   Who are you keeping warm
   in the dirt,
   little stone face?

   Was it a life full of wine
   and burning summers,
   or a small, pale thing
   cut short
   before the first kiss?

   The earth doesn’t say—
   just eats.

   Maybe the soul is still here,
   pacing the fence line,
   rubbing against the granite
   like a stray cat
   looking for a gentle hand.

   And you are the only friend left
   in this riot of weeds,
   a stone-bound guardian
   in the tall, wet chaos,
   watching over the bones
   while the world forgets to mourn.

   It is beautiful and terrible,
   how the silence grows louder
   than the prayer.

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