Roads cut into mountain rock like long memories,
though the names and dates and reasons
have all been forgotten. One fresh grave
among the long lauded and appropriated dead
give us something to tell stories about,
each with a hint of mysticism and rebirth.
What is this place? Known and unknown,
traveled and unconquered, mapped and mysterious?
There are stories to be told, wood nymphs to chase,
crones filing ageless knowledge away in dusty bone husks.
Worries about the garden. Beware the killer mosquitoes
and the wrath of left turns.
If he is not careful, a man can come to this place
filled to his gills with the knowledge of good and evil
and leave feeling new born. Conspirators and coal barons
and tornadoes come and go, the sound of them
simply become rhythms to the songs
that have been sung for generations
and will be sung for generations more.
If he is not careful, a man can come to this place
broken and find his messiah
sitting beneath a tree in a lone cemetery
blessing the fresh grave of an infant
lucky enough to avoid the curse of naming
knowing love and turning back into dust.