Stones in a garden

How many times have I seen my own reflection in black?
Cold slate, hard granite.
Nothing has ever felt so permanent.
Sometimes I see your face in my own,
Summer eyes looking back on so many seasons.
Sometimes I am a stranger in this all.
What hell to live for a child of death,
What a troublesome sense of devotion.
A subconscious tattoo that only I can see.
A burden that only I understand.
Chained to an eternity of tending graves,
Turning soul that never grows.
Endless time alone, with only your memory.

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