Graveyards are not what they used to be—

Back in 2073.

There are no more stones.

No longer bones.

They are visiting rooms you access with phones.

 

Great-great-great Grannny who died in ’02

Wasn’t cremated or interred, it’s true.

Instead, a recycle, post-DNA store;

She’s still around to love and adore!

 

Just scan a print of your finger or eye—

Even your blood will bring her ‘to life’—

All that was her, in her encapsule box,

Better, by far, than dates chiseled on rocks.

 

A holograph rewind of who, when and how,

All that once was, brought forward to now.

Good, bad and ugly, all tucked away.

Continuous viewing, instead of decay!

 

You can raise the whole graveyard–if you’re of a mind—

For a family reunion, the quite ghoulish kind.

A hundred-year span. A dead-relative Rave!

Where the specters and ghosts dance on each other’s grave.

 

And when YOU are re-ceased, they won’t wail or mourn,

But recycle your bits to someone newformed,

Who will grow with your traits, be they redundant or bland,

With eyes and hair like your three-headed Grand.