This Access Road Cemetery and other places

Passing through Seguin recently, I stumbled upon a grouping of grave stones scattered awkwardly beside a barley field. The names on the headstones had been worn away with time, and the cemetery itself bore no name. On either side were farmhouses with simple picket fences and swing sets in the yards, and it made me uncomfortable. Then, across the street was an electrical plant with pillars of steel and concrete hot to the touch. What came first? Did the people choose to live beside the cemetery out of cost or convenience, or both? Did the graves appear all at once or one by one, and why did people stop dying? No new graves were judged by the moss and bird residue that covered the peaks. There was no parking or paths unless you intended to step over someone's most sacred last bedroom. My grandma always said if you step on a grave, the spirit of whoever rests there will follow you home. I'm not sure if I believe that, but then again, I try my best to avoid cemeteries just out of self-preservation. I wonder who planted the trees and how far the roots have traveled.

I came across this house behind a little movie theatre held up with marble pillars. I desperately wanted to get inside, but the older man in coveralls across the street kept a watchful eye while watering his hydrangeas. The vines wrapped had seeped inside and allowed a bed of green foam to coat the floors. I couldn't help but think how much I'd love to sink into sleep in a bed full of moss. I