Like dominoes,
Cluttered in their individual plots,
The gravestones stand.
Beacons of all that was,
Sombre, solemn reminders of the past,
Contributing to the shadow.
The three or four odd lines on each,
A poem without a rhyme,
A brief synopsis of the man's life,
A dilute, edited description of their existence,
Sadly most are erroneous,
The posthumous hyperbole of grieving relatives,
Had little bearing on the cadavers underneath,
They always remain constant,
Static, yet gathering age.
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