Eighteenth of September

In a garden of many decaying flowers
There stands a brown maple chair covered in rosery.
The whole year it sits and sits,
But every eighteenth of September
At five o'clock to midnight.
A young girl with long silky brown hair,
Comes to sit and play.
She plays nothing but Bach's Cello Suite.1 i-prelude
Over and over again.
Every time she plays the third time around,
A slow creeping tear falls from her deep
Blue eyes.
Falling to the ground with a silent thud.
When the sixth repeat has come
The girl has paused a few times to sob,
Only being heard by the deceased
That have come to watch.
To her,
She wishes for those of no use to flee
And her loved ones to stay.
A slight shiver down her spine
Signals her departure from this place,
Until the next
Eighteenth of September
At five o'clock to midnight.