A Drunken Walk By The Graveyard

These yews are ancient.
How willfully, they spread
their roots through
this dark and frigid cemetery,
silently lauding their long lives
over the blackening stones.

And then there's the berries
in the bushes, bursts of grim laughter
at the joke that nothing would
be blood-red anywhere here
but for them.

Only the earth's flesh
survives the worms' onslaught.
Not even mourning has endured.
Sure, the doves still mob
the gardens, but to feast, not sob.

If bodies want to spoil it
for the quiet, the sameness,
they'd better hurry while they still
have flesh on bone,
dig themselves out from below,
break up the surface's haughty throne,
poison the yews with gargoyle stares,
thresh the berries like fresh crimson victims,
brush aside the birds,
so they can do the true devouring.

Otherwise, this is just another graveyard
in just another town.
And I'm dead drunk
not drinking in the dead.