Bonaventure Cemetery, Georgia — Good and Evil
by Dawg
Beneath the Spanish moss that trails like accusation from the trees,
Bonaventure holds its silence, trembling in the slow night breeze.
Iron gates groan open–welcoming, yet laced with warning’s chill,
pathways tangled in moonlight lead where memory drinks its fill.
Marble angels brood on pillars, faces streaked with time’s own tears,
their blank eyes witness secrets, guilt and mercy through the years.
Stone lambs huddle over children, frozen in perpetual prayer,
while obelisks rise like questions, refusing all despair.
Each statue is a sermon carved in granite, sharp and clear,
their shadows shift with midnight, their verdicts never disappear.
Some faces crack with laughter, some weep for love betrayed,
every grave is a ledger where the price of sin is paid.
Good and evil spiral here, entwined like roots below the sod,
names worn smooth by rainfall, every mourner left to God.
Wander here and listen–there’s a whisper in the leaves,
a chorus of the vanished, a shiver in the eaves.
Cold spots bite the skin, as if regret itself could freeze,
your breath catches in the silence, tangled in the trees.
Sometimes you glimpse a woman, black-dressed and pale,
gliding through the statues, clutching secrets that prevail.
History is heavy here, sticky as the Southern dusk,
smell of jasmine and decay, copper and old musk.
Ghosts parade at midnight, drawn to stories left untold,
whispering of debts and lust, and fortunes bought or sold.
Look close at the angels, at the children carved from stone,
their gaze is endless–measuring each lie you think you own.
This is the garden of good and evil, tangled tight as faith,
where the future’s a rumor, and the past can never wait.
In Bonaventure, every shadow has a place.
You’ll walk away in darkness, never truly gone–
the stories here will find you, long after you move on.