Everything Comes
Published in

Everything Comes

Unknown Souls

How do you know a soul, he wondered

It was the start of a new day

Temperate weather had become rain-sodden

He could look out the window and imagine rain

He did not know if his eyes were at fault

Of if the windows needed washing

But he allowed himself to feel a sense of rain

Why not

What mattered weather anyway

Ah, there was climate change

He’d lived in NYC going on nine decades

And saw it all as a lost collection of fragments

Were he a Proust he would be most defective

He would have to title his great work

“Ambient Fragments of a Forgotten Past”

Oh, he could imagine scenes that might have once been real

Not even remembering the cause of such presumptions

He knew he had nurses and was taken places

Strange yet fascinating

Ecclesiastical darkness

Candles perhaps

He could not remember

He could not for the life of him recall

If he could not remember real events

How might he know Souls

At his age most persons from his past

Were long gone

Long gone Souls

They had all passed on

Oh, he believed it

A vast and growing assemblage

Of every being he had ever been

Wherever life was situated

These Souls were closer to him now

Than all the living, breathing folk he saw

And yet he had never seen,

Even in imaginal realms

More than fleeting glimpses of fleeting forms

Coming by fast

That was how he knew there really were dimensions

There in the tiny glimmers he was seeing

The images moved by at warp speed

Different than dreams

More vague

Blurred and unreal

And yet he could accept these paltry tokens

As intimations of realms he would one day see

He would occupy them

It was written

And then there were clear prospects of improvement

He might improve his Soul awareness

Maybe elicit telepathic


Could he do that

How did he know

He didn’t

They were there

He was merged with them


Some unknown

Names gathered daily from his travels

Sylvia Plath

Charles Dickens

Da, the nurse at Dartington

And Westbury

Oh, he traveled everywhere

And what was there he might not know

At least today


He would know nothing

And yet all he needed was at hand



How blissful existence is

What do we need


But the purest gifts of transient forgetfulness



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Stephen C. Rose

Stephen C. Rose


steverose@gmail.com I am 86 and remain active on Twitter and Medium. I have lots of writings on Kindle modestly priced and KU enabled. We live on!