I heard a story once, that shouldn’t be believed.
Or maybe it was that it should, but should never be shared, or maybe it was a bus timetable and fares – muddled became a story (as the mind is oft to do) of a graveyard, a mass grave with no markers or names where people, piled twelve deep and miles across are splayed criss cross and tongue tied around each other.
It’s said that there are no visitors – a sign says so in gentle block lettering “No Visitations” and were a curious person to walk in anyway to see if this tale is true – nothing would be found. Not even under stones.
Here they say, is a place where even the birds respect the silence demanded, for what a killing it is indeed that brought them together. It’s a place beyond wishing rest, where sleep is done softly wide eyed.
The buried are not to be missed or mourned or cried “why for why for” in this place. Here the secrets are too old for words, too sacred for memory, and too fragile to know.
Or so they say and how ridiculous a thing – a story like that.
But it’s said that just before a kill is made, all voices gone before can be heard by a few, their speech only for when they offer this comfort (weirder and more true than any other) that it is known that a mass grave, miles splayed, criss crossed lie the tongue tied, bound to each other – bones locked in solidarity for all time.