Each Soul’s Uniquely Made of Ghosts

A problem with remembering
The dead is that your memories
Function no differently for them

Than for the living. You recall
Who you recall, some vividly,
Some barely at all, but you don’t

Sort them into bins or coffins.
Worse, who you are may be composed
More of memories of the dead

Than of the living, even those
With whom you’re presently living.
Your thoughts are blurs of kinds of ghosts,

Those with embodied avatars
Still updating regularly,
Those alive but long since fading,

And those neither here nor distant,
But nowhere—and you’re all of them
As well as the one soul sees them.