Tombstones

Just a poem about getting depressed and sleeping in a cemetery I once enjoyed.

Silent statues of stone

Surrounding my new home 

Watching my every move 

They were erected to guide to a higher kingdom 

Yet they sit sinking into the earth 

Not knowing what wrong they have done

To become one with the dirt 

Angles and saints made of stone 

You can not protect my new home

When you are being pulled to a hell below 

Though you are being drug to the opposite of what you stood for 

Let me assure you 

That the real hell is on earth 

So as I stand in the church you once lovingly adored 

I will painfully lean against these wooden doors 

Showing you once more 

That the real hell is earth