Gert Strydom

(03 April 1964 / Johannesburg, South Africa)

Another Kind Of Epitaph


The time I died first, there were days upon days
while you cried, remembering my unique ways.
I rose up and up high above the cemetery wall
while then I could fly and everything beneath looked small,

but back to mother earth I had to go, where I felt the new rain
while very slow, worms on me started to gnaw without any pain.
When my next funeral came, you graciously wanted to put me to sleep
you did not want the general type of burial where they would bury me deep

but to the fire you wanted me to go, to experience the flames of hell
and over the sea, the veldt my ashes you did blow and with tears wished me well.

Submitted: Friday, October 28, 2011
Edited: Friday, October 28, 2011

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  • Rookie - 615 Points Dave Walker (10/28/2011 2:33:00 AM)

    Love this. A really great poem.
    Past lifes are what divides a lot of people.
    Some say your reborn some say not.
    Great write. (Report) Reply

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