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May 2018
In loving memory of the old me,
I am deceased, gone, I’m history.
Faded away but still breathing,
Fighting the urge of really leaving.
My public persona is laid to rest,
Was prepped, embalmed and dressed,
Laid in a hole, deeper than six,
A permanent solution with no easy fix.
Or better yet, I was cremated,
Burnt, diminished and completely degraded.
What was left, my cremains, were put in a box
And shoved on a shelf like a broken clock.
Either way, it doesn’t matter,
Be it the first or be it the latter.
Burial or cremation, the cost is the same,
One human soul, only a memory to remain.
Bridget Crooks
Written by
Bridget Crooks  18/F/Saskatoon, SK
(18/F/Saskatoon, SK)   
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