Whispered Words and Fond Goodbyes

The cemetary gates stood open,
arms of stone and steel,
wide flung like a welcoming embrace,
waiting to take me in its grasp
for that final night of never ending sleep.

The procession came,
  long one by ones,
    solemnity on every face.
I could not feel what they all felt;
  no deep remorse
    or profound sadness
could find its way into my heart.
For death is not a door that closes;
  it opens and one must pass through.
Inevitable as tide and turn,
  the sun that burns will still be bright
    though passing eyes are no longer there to see.

The might have beens and turns I missed;
  will regret be all I feel
    when I too pass these walls of sleep?
What of promises I've kept,
  and those I've failed to realize?
Of what fine cloth is remembrance made?
The legacy I've left behind,
  will it be more than simple stone
  which marks a grave
    but tells nothing of the one who rests
      beneath its fading words?

These garden stones, row upon row,
stand in silence, a reverie,
scarce broken by the songbirds call.
The desert spaces, unseen by most,
except on that day, once in a while,
when fresh soil is broken and a few words spoken,
and those that gather spend a day
remembering one they dearly loved,
but just as quickly seem to fade
from memory's mind and heart's recall.

The saddened air is rarely met,
except by the widows who sometimes come,
exchanging flowers, old for new,
and speak in whispers to the one
who they still love in heart of hearts,
  who they recall in reminisces,
    who they still wish for, day to day.
Will they be met beyond the end,
  a reacquaintance far beyond
the little pains and sad goodbyes
  once spoken in this hallowed place.