Beholding the Necropolis.

A rise, weird, as solemn as golgotha,
gothic, pensive as a weary prophet, fallen,
mass tombs, catacombs and stone ornate—
earthy wombs of lives lived, in lonely bone
beneath monument and epitaph etched.

Mournful, ever, in the rain and grey
rows like grandiose worn teeth crumbling
away, bees bumbling on in wanderings, 
no wiser in obelisk-shadow, fallen ornament
weathered ever, sacrament and memory,

placide quiescant, resting, high beneath silver.