As I drive down the street to work every day,
I pass by a cemetery along my way.
It’s one of the old ones with stones of each class
From sandstone to marble, some with nameplates of brass.
What a multitude of people now gone from this earth
Have their bones gathered there, no longer of worth
Did those people of old leave a mark as they went
From birth until when their remains there were sent?
Were they kind or jolly; did they give alms to the poor?
When they left us did someone swing wide heaven’s door?
How many stories must be there, buried in time;
Some must be evil, others sublime.
But we know that the end of each story’s the same
Nothing remains but a stone with a name.
Read more articles, stories and poems by Betty Killebrew at: www.trovemagazine.com