Rough Draft | Poem: Graveyard

I wandered through the ancient stones
when by a mossy stump
freezing, I turned my aching bones
to ponder this strange lump.

The markers all around the place
were crumbled, old, decayed,
but for the worst of any case
I’d care to be delayed.

A story I was sure to find
if any part stayed true;
if history would then be kind,
I’d learn the tale anew.

So wiping, scraping, in the mud
I pulled the moss away,
and then I learned that my own blood
below my feet did lay.

Son of Michael, the surname read,
and I Michaelson too.
I knew little of who was dead;
the tales recalled were few.

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