Garden Where Crosses Grow

The coldest of mornings In the Garden Where Crosses Grow Gather around and listen to the silence roaring Unseen in plain sight Stands the shape of a girl Calling out to loved ones still unacknowledged Below her feet was a six foot hole From behind approached a black cloak A bone cold hand on the shoulder And into a shocking death she finally awoke The coldest of mornings In the garden where crosses grow A shout no louder than but a whisper Fades away into the crisp cold air