On Cemeteries, in my mind:
I really enjoy (the 'wasted' Earth we call) Cemeteries. (There are times when I just know 'God' told us to mark the spot of our dead so we’d deem some of 'His' Earth the sacred ground it is.) “Sarcastic” Janet piped in. I like to tell myself she’s the part of me diagnosed with Aspergers, the one with a penchant for the truth and a wicked Southern accent. I digress as oft be and . . .
I really do enjoy Cemeteries. I don’t go out, pick a grave, prostrate myself and pretend I’m somebody's long lost relative. The dead are my therapists, I confess. I sit quietly, sometimes
I really enjoy (the 'wasted' Earth we call) Cemeteries. (There are times when I just know 'God' told us to mark the spot of our dead so we’d deem some of 'His' Earth the sacred ground it is.) “Sarcastic” Janet piped in. I like to tell myself she’s the part of me diagnosed with Aspergers, the one with a penchant for the truth and a wicked Southern accent. I digress as oft be and . . .
I really do enjoy Cemeteries. I don’t go out, pick a grave, prostrate myself and pretend I’m somebody's long lost relative. The dead are my therapists, I confess. I sit quietly, sometimes
on a bench placed in someone’s honor, sometimes I sit at the property edge. Sometimes I park myself right smack dab in the middle of everybody. I think. I watch my thoughts, and sometimes, when I really have to, I talk. Sometimes smiling, people appear to answer me. Cemeteries are comforting places for me . . . until they're not, and that's a totally different topic.
P.S. AND I hope to catch a glimpse of my dead ashes flyin' through the air explodin' into an amazing piece of art, the fourth of my July, lasting as long as the light does . . . just sayin' so you're not at all surprised at the readin' of my Will.
P.S. AND I hope to catch a glimpse of my dead ashes flyin' through the air explodin' into an amazing piece of art, the fourth of my July, lasting as long as the light does . . . just sayin' so you're not at all surprised at the readin' of my Will.