If you think about cremation's dusty physics
and all of what remains after the burn,
it doesn't take savants or cryptic mystics
to know there's more than daddy in the urn.
The process, after all, is quite industrial
You're not first in the oven or the last
it therefore stands to reason that we must be all
confused to some degree after the blast.
And in the end, you know, it's rather fitting –
a certain levelling, a kind of fate –
that, what remains of us should be, unwitting,
swept up into some vast amalgamate.
And thus hope lives within our roasted bones
We die; we're intermixed; we're not alone.