I stand in silence exuding the dignity expected by my infrequent, reluctant visitors. Casting long shadows over the darkened windows, the black lace veils and dark suits so seldom aired. Offering comfort through familiarity to the grief-stricken, the respectful onlookers, the older ones knowing what best to say and do. Inwardly I smile for have I not, like many of my kind, stood guard at the cemetery gates for half of my two hundred year life.
Filed under As you read it, Factual, Flash fiction, On the lines of romance, Self compositions
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When the pen takes control. 
Not bad for a young ‘un. 🙂
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I have never been termed young even when I was
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But 200 years… that’s nothing.
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