Immortality
No grass will grow on my grave.
Cremated, my ashes (probably mine, mostly mine)
will sit in a box, while someone,
not sure exactly who I am, wondering
who I’ve gotten myself mixed up with,
asks, What will we do with him,
like my parents when I was young.
It almost will be my life. Except
I’ll be innocent and able to sleep,
no roots or regrets to disturb me.
— Carl Bettis
2025-10-04
Halloween Day 4
A blog by Bedrieger Junction's Slant of Light writing group