Gravyard Mushrooms

The time is 12:00 a.m. as I walk toward the rustic gates. The air that surrounds me a warm like those of summer nights. The moon gleams an off white glitter of light that shows me the path to my destination. The beginning of my journey starts at the end of most. The cemetery which is darker and darker every step I take, grows more daunting as I glare at what seems to be a black hole of nothingness. I take the first step to open the giant black gates which are twice as tall as a man. To my surprise I find the doors unlocked, almost as though they were waiting for someone who was never to come. As I open the gate a loud shriek from the rusted joints. I take my first step into the darkness closing the ghostly gate behind me.

As I take my first steps into the cemetery I find that some areas are lit by hanging street lamps, similar to lighthouses on beach fronts. All you can see is the light which gives an eerie feeling because your not exactly sure what or who could reside in the dark, lurking and waiting. I quickly walk toward the closest light to find that right under it is the first gravestone I see. Michal Wayman 1964-2000. As I look at this stone I notice the piles of dead flowers that surrounded this grave. I wonder who Michal was and why he died. A feeling of sadness stretches itself across my mind. I have too lost people that were close to me. I began to feel more comfortable in this place which seemed a lot more intimidating not but 5 minutes earlier. I pressed on toward a large structure which was several lighthouses ahead.

As I came closer I read a small sign located near this ornately decorated tomb. It said “mausoleum“. The tomb was made completely of what seemed to be expensive stone. It had 2 sets of stairs going to the dramatic entrance. The walls were engraved with an expert design that depicted a man and religious symbols. I sat down next to the large statues feeling there rough texture. I then walked toward the equisitly stained glas windows. Although I couldn’t walk into this final resting place I could garuntee that the inside was furnished as well as the outside was chizzled.

I pressed on to another area which was closed off from the rest of the cemetery. The grass in this area was much taller and all grounds seemed to be . neglected. I stooped over the first gave which read “ Our Son Thomas”. I soon realized where it was that I had wondered to. It was the final resting place of infants who never got the chance to live their lives. I was in the section that babies were buried. This was the saddest part of my journey. All the graves were covered in small bundles of flowers that seemed to stretch on forever. The sight of so many young ones that had died made me feel lucky to experience life. These unfortunate life’s were so short lived. I felt comfort in the fact that God would forever watch over these souls, which were born innocent and died without sin.

I began walking towards a path that stretched as far as I could see. The ground was lined with gravel that I kicked as I walked. On each side of the path was a short stack of bricks forming a wall on each side. As I walked further the wall grew taller. Each step felt as though you were sinking. I decided to take a step up the wall and examine more gravestones. The first was a oversized cross which read “Williams Morris” It was written in a large font that only said his name. I wonder why this person chose not to include anything else.