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Is that me,
that little pile?
All that’s left of a life?
A sudden blast
in a cardboard container,
discreetly, on the edge of town,
and gone
just like that?
Last word spoken, last breath
drawn, last laugh, last flash of anger?
No more hurt nor guilt
at weaknesses?
No. . . . . .

Tears suddenly
blown to the
wind over the crest of a hill
to where I was.
And all will be
as before me.
In memories
pain will fade,
worn by the rushing of years
until even memory is gone. . . .
and all is gone. . . .

This post was submitted by Bill Moen.

Category: Funeral Poems
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