On vines withered once grew teh dreams of toil until hope's roots entwined weeds of turmoil, transforming a bounty from rich to lean, making dull and lifeless what should be green. Nary flowers there now save a thistle e'er since its earth drank of sorrow's drizzle. Behold the mourners in their smiling masks who await a similar fate with scorn. Are there enough to sate the angst so pall, that's used to conquer thsoe who once stood tall with a life's ebbing tome of rules to fend. Desks for burial coffers serve their keeper until the time comes to greet the reaper.
Name plates proclaim victims of fatal charms who seek wealth's lure instead of sainted arms.
Gladly trading al for just one request, to grant them their due before they must rest.